


Follow Every Highway

by gallifreyburning



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternative Universe - Jupiter Ascending, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Fake Marriage, Femdom, Green Card Marriage, Inspired by a Movie, Jupiter Ascending Fic Challenge, Light Dom/sub, Marriage of Convenience, Past Sexual Assault, Praise Kink, Slow Build, very slow build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jupiter Jones needs a green card. Caine Wise needs a place to live. What's a little marriage of convenience, between strangers?</p><p>AU based on the movie <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099699/?ref_=nv_sr_1">Green Card</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the autumn of 1990, when the trees in Central Park begin to turn gold, Jupiter Jones marries a complete stranger.

Jupiter’s never been a particularly sentimental person. She's never given a second thought to flower arrangements, wedding cakes, or white designer dresses. Even so, she didn’t imagine she’d slink to Manhattan City Hall on a weekday afternoon and meet her husband for the first time right before she says “I do.”

She has to fake a fever to get out of her cleaning job with her mother and Aunt Nino. The timing will be tricky, too - when they get home, if she isn’t in bed moaning with the flu, they’ll be suspicious. City Hall is a short hop on the A-Line from where she was scrubbing toilets; it’s a small distance to travel for new life full of new opportunities. Jupiter’s lived in America her entire life but isn’t a legal citizen. Without citizenship, she can’t go to college. She’s already twenty-one, and she’s tired of living on autopilot, cleaning houses every day with her mother and aunt.

Although tired isn’t precisely the word to describe someone resorting to a green card marriage. Jupiter hates her life. Every dead-end day, she feels her potential slipping through her fingers.

Across the street from Manhattan City Hall is a packed-out pizza joint named Chicago Pie. Jupiter locks herself in the bathroom and changes from jeans and flannel shirt into a sundress, low-cut and full-skirted with a purple rose pattern. It’s one of two dresses she owns. With her hair in a ponytail and her sneakers on, she looks like a coed ready for a summer picnic, not a bride on her wedding day.

Sitting at a red checkered table beside the restaurant’s front window, she orders a soda and waits.

Kiza shows up first. She arranged this meeting, after all. She and her father live in the Abrasax Building, where Jupiter has a regular cleaning job. They can’t afford a maid, but Jupiter runs into her on a regular basis. Kiza’s a freshman at Columbia, and when Jupiter said something about wishing she could go to school too, the conversation snowballed right into “green card marriage.”

The arrangement isn't only for Jupiter's sake; the guy she's marrying is fresh out of the service, and his discharge was "other than honorable," whatever that means. Being married somehow helps with his living arrangement. Jupiter’s hazy on the details, and she doesn’t particularly care. They won’t ever see each other again, except when they meet one more time to sign divorce papers six months from now.

Kiza plops down and leans across the little round café table to grasp Jupiter’s forearm. She’s trembling more than Jupiter. “You look beautiful! This is going to be fine, everything’s going to be fine. Isn’t it going to be fine?”

“Don’t worry, Kiza. I won’t tell your dad you set this up,” Jupiter promises for the hundredth time, squeezing the other woman’s hand.

After stealing a few sips from Jupiter’s soda, Kiza glances out the window and waves in greeting. A man stands on the sidewalk, staring down at Jupiter through the glass. He’s younger than she expected, but aside from that he’s very military – tall and well-built, with close-cropped blond hair and a neat beard. He’s wearing enough black for a funeral, tight jeans and t-shirt and combat boots, with a grey leather jacket thrown on top like an afterthought. His ears definitely stick out, and his expression would be stern if his lips weren’t so full. He’s not Jupiter’s type, but he isn't terrible to look at.

As he surveys Jupiter, his eyebrows draw together and a worried line forms between them, like he isn’t pleased with what he sees. Kiza waves again, gesturing toward the door. He walks down the storefront and comes inside, navigating the maze of packed tables with the mindfulness of someone who is aware of how he appears, and is trying not to make an intimidating impression.

Before Kiza can introduce them, the man sticks out his hand. “I’m Caine Wise. I’m here to help you.”

“Holy shit, Caine. You promised you wouldn’t make this weird,” Kiza says, burying her face in her hands. She’s bright red, she looks like she’s having an anxiety attack. Jupiter has never met Kiza’s father, but she knows he’s a police detective. Is she having second thoughts about facilitating this illegal arrangement? “You swore you wouldn’t freak her out.”

“What?” Caine retorts in genuine confusion, a touch defensive. He glances back and forth at the two women, the cleft between his eyes deepening.

“I said get some roses or something, you idiot.” Kiza’s tone is like that of a younger sister, mortified by her older brother’s hopeless behavior. It’s then that Jupiter notices the single white carnation in his other hand, a tiny thing with a short stem, wilted from being cooped up in his fist.

He's on the verge of cramming it into his pocket, so Jupiter reaches out and plucks it away. Swallowing the lump of nerves in her throat, she flashes a smile and tucks the flower behind her ear.

“I’m not freaked out.” She stands up and takes the hand he’s still got extended in introduction. He grips gently, shakes once, and lets go. “Nice to meet you, Caine Wise. I’m Jupiter Jones, and I’m here to be your wife.”

 

~~~~~

 

Kiza stays long enough to sign the marriage certificate as their legal witness, and then she bails. After the entire process is finished, standing in front of town hall with a gold band on her left ring finger, Jupiter shakes Caine’s hand one more time.

There’s a boisterous wedding party next to them, friends cheering and tossing flower petals at a bride in a fluffy white dress and a groom in a suit. He’s got her bent over backward, the two of them shoving tongues into each other’s mouths, and a few passerby give wolf whistles at the happy couple.

Caine glances at them, shuffling from one foot to the other like a kid waiting to be dismissed from school.

“Thanks again for doing this,” Jupiter says.

“Good luck with college,” Caine replies.

“What?” Jupiter says, surprised.

“Kiza told me you were going to college.” He surveys her sharply, like he's been misled and he's reevaluating his first impression. “Aren’t you?”

She doesn't like the way his scrutiny feels. He's obviously fine with the fact that they're breaking the law together, but for some reason he cares about her motivation for marrying him? What if she wasn't doing this for the sake of college admissions? Would it matter? A tiny part of her wants to sit down and explain everything, to wipe that look of confused disappointment off his face; if she had time, and if it mattered at all what he thought of her, then maybe she would. But right now she's keenly aware of how late it is and how long the subway ride home will be. 

“Listen Caine, I need to get home before my family realizes I'm gone. It was nice to meet you. Have a great life, and I’ll see you again at Chicago Pie in six months, right?”

Caine shrugs and nods, like she’s his commanding officer and she’s just given him an order. “Sure. Have a great life, Jupiter.” Cramming his left hand into his jacket pocket, hiding Jupiter’s cheap silver ring on his finger, he turns on the spot and strides away without looking back.

Jupiter watches him go, pulling her arms around herself and letting out a long relieved breath. The hard part’s over; now she’s just got to deal with college applications and scholarships, and breaking the news to her mother that she’s going to leave home.

 

~~~~~

 

Once she has her wedding certificate, Jupiter spends every second of her scant free time curled up on her bed in her uncle’s basement, scribbling college admission essays. She sneaks off to the local public library to use the typewriter to fill out application forms; she sends pre-stamped envelopes to the Brighton Beach School District for copies of her high school transcript. Her gold wedding band is tucked away into her coin-purse, alongside the dried white carnation, and she’s been scrupulously ignoring it since the day she left the courthouse steps. She has been paying plenty of attention to her citizenship paperwork, though, waiting for the American government’s immeasurably inefficient bureaucracy to get into gear and send her a social security number.

Even though the arrangement is only temporary, it’s surreal writing a man’s name beside hers in the space labelled “spouse.”

Caine Wise.

Jupiter Wise … nope, definitely not. She’s keeping her maiden name. If she ever gets married – properly married – she’ll just insist her husband takes the name Jones.

College applications feel like her real job now, except she’s still obligated to spend sunup to sundown cleaning with her mother and Aunt Nino.

One month after her wedding, Jupiter’s doing her regular weekly stop at Katharine Dunlevy's apartment, in the Abrasax Building on the Upper West Side. It’s the same building where Kiza lives with her father. Every time Jupiter comes to work here, she idly wonders where Caine is, and if his living situation worked out like he wanted it to. 

Feeling particularly restless today, she leaves her supplies inside Katharine's apartment and steps into the corridor for a breath of fresh, bleach-free air. The elevator dings, and an attractive man wanders out, looking lost. He’s wearing designer clothes, an asymmetrically cut suit with neon-colored lapels that Jupiter swears she saw in this month’s _Vogue_. A pair of John Lennon sunglasses perch on his elegant nose; he’s pretty enough to be in a boy band.

“This isn’t the penthouse,” he says aloud. 

Jupiter can't tell if he's asking a question, but she decides to answer anyway. “This is the ninth floor, you're looking for the twenty-eighth. They generally keep penthouses at the top, just below the pigeons.” She holds up her arms like she’s measuring something, hands wide apart. “You missed it by this much. Nice effort, though.”

He laughs, and he lets the elevator doors close, and he chats Jupiter up with the swaggering overconfidence that all attractive wealthy men seem to have. He obviously mistakes her for a resident. At first she intends to correct him, to confess that she’s the cleaning lady who just finished scrubbing toilets in 9C, but he doesn’t let her get a word in edgewise. Before long she stops trying and clasps her hands behind her back, hiding her dry nails, and smiles at him.

“I don’t live in New York. Obviously I’m not a native,” he says, his posh English accent doing funny things to her insides. Jupiter's father was the son of a British diplomat, but he died before she was born. Did his voice sound like this, the same smooth timbre and slow vowels? “My brother’s in the penthouse, and my sister’s just below. Did I mention my name? How silly of me, I must’ve forgotten. It’s Titus Abrasax - Abrasax like the building! I just arrived from Oxford, on a minibreak before I go back to school.”

“I’m applying to college, too. I’m going to major in astronomy,” Jupiter says, brightening. “What do you study?”

“A little bit of everything,” Titus replies, with the detached air of a man whose job future is already secure in his family’s business, whatever that happens to be.

He’s cute and charming, if a little smarmy. He’s definitely rich. He invites her to dinner on Sunday. Jupiter hasn’t been on a date in a while; she hasn't done anything fun in ages. When he offers to stop by her apartment and drive her to the restaurant in his Porsche, she says she’ll meet him there instead. At worst, she’ll get to listen to his accent while she eats an expensive meal on his dime. 

Taking her hand and bowing, like a prince out of a fairy tale, Titus flashes a dazzling smile. “The hours will crawl by until Sunday.”

Jupiter excuses herself and walks into the stairwell, just in time to catch her mother and aunt on the way out.

“I’m finished with 9C,” she says, shooing them back inside before they can see Titus – more importantly, before he can see them. “No more to do here, let’s move on to the next building.”

She has to go back to Katharine Dunlevy’s apartment for her cleaning supplies, of course, but by then Titus is gone.

On the drive home from Manhattan to Uncle Vassily’s house in Brighton Beach, her mother turns around to look at her in the back seat. “You have been smiling all afternoon, Jupiter. What are you daydreaming about?”

“I have a date on Sunday,” Jupiter replies.

 _“Really?”_ Aunt Nino almost drives the car into oncoming traffic, craning her head to see her niece.

“He’s an Abrasax, like the building. He's visiting from England, and he’s taking me to dinner.” Jupiter nibbles on her thumb, trying to hide her grin.

“Heaven help us,” Aleksa grumbles. “The last thing you need is one of those rich British boys who thinks he can take advantage of you because you are a working girl.”

“Mama, you let a British boy take advantage of you,” Jupiter says.

“Ooch, your father was only half British, and he was a  _man_. Now there are only boys, with no honor or loyalty in their souls, always trying to get into your pants. I have a pepper spray, you will take it with you.”

“I won’t let him take advantage of me. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll take the pepper spray,” Jupiter replies.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mr Wise! Stop dilly-dallying! Order thirty-six is up, and so’s thirty-two! Four of your tables need drink refills, and table thirty-five has been waiting to order for the last fifteen minutes!”

Caine has not been dilly-dallying; he’s been scrambling all over this godforsaken restaurant all night long, trying to turn over his tables as quickly as Proprietor Bob, the perky blond manager, insists he should. Caine’s covering two sections tonight, because one of the other waiters is out sick. He’s only had the job a week, and it’s been an unmitigated disaster from start to finish. He thought restaurant work might be a little bit like the military, carrying and filling orders, but he was dead wrong. If he hears one more rich snob whine about his steak being cooked improperly, he’s going to flip one of these tables right over.

He’s not coming back tomorrow, but he won’t ditch in the middle of his last shift. A few more hours to go, then he’ll cash out his tips and find another job. He’s gone through so many since his Air Force discharge, at this rate he’ll end up having to take Stinger’s offer to pull strings at the police academy, so they’ll overlook his record. Caine already owes Stinger so much, he doesn’t want to accept one more favor.

Caine snags the water carafe and dodges through the frantic, overcrowded serving floor, refilling glasses. He delivers the two orders from the kitchen, and finally he paws his order pad out of his apron and heads to table thirty-five.

Without looking up, he pulls the pencil from behind his ear. “Can I take your order?”

“It’s about damn time, we’ve been waiting for ages,” the man replies. Caine glances at him – another idiot wearing a suit that costs more than Caine makes in a year, already planning to stiff him on tip. He looks like he just stepped out of a Roxette video, complete with fluffed-out hair and pink lip gloss.

Caine’s eyes flick to the woman at the table and he freezes, his entire body rigid with shock.

It’s Jupiter.

The silver ring on his left hand burns his skin like a brand. He’s kept it there ever since the ceremony, because he has to wear it inside his apartment building and it’s simpler to just leave it on all the time. It’s helpful during job interviews; employers look more kindly on a man supporting a family. It’s an easy out when anyone tries to pick him up. It’s a tool he uses to grease the wheels of his life, nothing more.

Jupiter stares up at him like a startled deer, her hazel eyes even more enormous than the first time they met, almost perfectly round with embarrassment. She definitely notices his ring, curling her own ring-free left hand under the table, out of sight.

On their wedding day, in her purple dress and ponytail, she looked as warm and bright as a summer afternoon. Tonight her gown is beautiful, white with red flowers, but it doesn’t sit on her well, as if she borrowed it from someone else. Her hair is down in soft chestnut waves, and the dim, romantic lighting in the restaurant makes her skin glow.

Shit, he’s staring. _Don’t make it weird_ , he hears Kiza say.

“Sorry,” Caine squeaks, then clears his throat and lowers his register to its normal rumbling pitch. “Sorry about the wait. I’m here to help you?”

 _Fuck,_ he definitely made it fucking weird, what the fuck is wrong with him? The question is _Can I take your order?_ Why did his brain just spit out the same goddamn stupid thing he said when they first met? Jupiter’s going to think he’s trying to get a rise out of her in front of her boyfriend.

“I’ll take the biggest glass of red wine you serve, and the surf and turf,” Jupiter replies, breathless. She lifts the menu so it hides her face. “Make the steak medium-rare.”

Her boyfriend rubs his perfectly square jaw, leaning onto the table toward her. Caine’s throat feels thick, and he swallows.

“Tell me about the fettuccini,” the man says.

“Um, it’s got capers and grilled sirloin in a cream sauce.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t eat meat.”

“This is a steakhouse,” Caine says, before he can stop himself. Jupiter lifts her menu even higher. “I can ask the kitchen to make the fettuccini without steak, if you’d like. Or you could choose something from the salad portion of the menu, we have several meat-less options there.”

“Bring me the fettuccini without steak. Make sure the chef washes all the pans and cooking utensils, I don’t want anything that’s touched beef to be used in making my food.”

Does this guy have an allergy or something?

“Yes sir,” Caine says through his teeth, jotting everything on his notepad. “Anything else?”

“I’ll have the same thing the lady’s drinking. And I expect the rest of our service tonight won’t be as abysmally slow as it has been so far. Have some pride in your work, boy.”

Caine writes down one last note, ordering the man a bottle of the restaurant’s most expensive wine. “I’ll put a rush on the food.”

“Too right,” the man says. “Get a move on.”

He snatches Jupiter’s menu and shoves it at Caine, forcing her into the open. She’s flushed crimson from her forehead all the way down her chest. She’s chewed all the bright red lipstick off of her bottom lip, her eyes are glued to the tablecloth. Caine takes the menus from her boyfriend and walks away, unconsciously crumpling the notepad in his fist.

On his way to put in their order, he steels his nerves. He’s spent his adult life running toward the most dangerous, most fatal situations the Air Force has to offer. He’s been shot three times; he was once held prisoner by the enemy for six weeks. He can damn well man up and serve dinner to his wife and her boyfriend without making an utter fool of himself.

When he brings out the bread basket, Jupiter studies her fingernails like they hold the secrets of the universe. He proffers the bottle of wine over his arm for her boyfriend’s inspection, he uncorks it and pours it with textbook precision. Jupiter plucks the stemmed glass from his hand the same way she’d plucked the carnation from him on their wedding day, not touching him at all.

He might be imagining it, but it almost sounds like she says, “Thank you.”

With so many other tables to serve, Caine doesn’t have time to pay particular attention to the progress of her date, but he finds himself refilling his water carafe more often than is strictly necessary. It’s coincidence that the sink has a sight-line directly toward her side of the restaurant.

Over the course of the meal, Jupiter’s boyfriend edges his chair around the small circular table, until he’s pressed up beside her. He keeps scooting, conversing steadily, his arm around her shoulders. Jupiter is polite, smiling and chatting, but she leans away from him until she’s perched on the edge of her own chair, practically falling onto the floor.

Caine doesn’t know if the man is oblivious to Jupiter’s discomfort, or maybe he's enjoying it, but the instant she finishes her main course he returns to their table.

“Sir, there’s a phone call for you,” Caine says in a slightly bored, deferentially polite voice. “You can take it at the hostess desk.”

The man lifts his eyebrows in surprised irritation. “For me? I wonder if my brother has tracked me down.” He turns to Jupiter. “I won’t be a moment, my dear.”

Caine points him to the front of the restaurant, where the hostess stands guard by the door. Once he walks away, Jupiter unfolds from the edge of her seat. Caine pulls her boyfriend’s empty chair back to its original spot halfway around the table and tucks it under, refolding the napkin and collecting the empty plates.

“Would you like to order anything else this evening?” he asks Jupiter.

She glances at Caine, and then toward her boyfriend. He’s speaking with the hostess, who is obviously confused as to why he’s asking for the phone. Agitated, he turns to gesture at Caine.

“There wasn’t really a phone call,” Jupiter murmurs, her eyebrows lifting in comprehension.

“I can bring dessert or coffee, if you’d like to extend your meal. Or I can bring the check,” Caine says. “Whichever you prefer.”

Jupiter’s fleeting smile is full of gratitude. “Definitely the check.”

Ears burning hot, he keeps his expression bland and professional. “I’ll be right back with that.”

Before he can walk away, she reaches out, halfway between a wave and a grab for his arm. “One more thing, if it isn’t too much trouble – please ask the valet to pull around the yellow Porsche 911 for him, and hail a cab for me?”

Her boyfriend stalks toward the table again, his face twisted in annoyance. It doesn't matter if he complains to Proprietor Bob, because Caine is quitting, anyway.

“No trouble at all," he says to her. "I’ll take care of it now.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Caine nods and walks away.

Jupiter’s boyfriend pays cash for the $400 meal and doesn’t leave a penny for tip. Caine watches out the front window as she gets into her cab, alone, and he decides he doesn’t mind.

 

~~~~~

 

The next morning Caine wants to sleep late, because he doesn’t have a job to get to anymore, but before dawn a cold wet nose burrows into his neck and doesn’t let up.

“Sig, quit it. Go away,” he groans.

The dog whimpers, sitting back onto his haunches beside the bed and barking. Before he gets loud enough to wake the neighbors, Caine gives in and rolls out of bed. He pulls on the clothes nearest to hand – jeans that haven’t been washed and a stained t-shirt – and he takes the dog for a walk.

Sig came back from Panama with Caine. His unit found this runt puppy in the rubble of a bombed-out building, whimpering and half-dead. Caine nursed him back to health, trained him, and when everything else in Caine’s world went sideways, Sig was his one steady constant. The hundred-pound mutt is dead clever, with cream-colored fur and perpetually pointed ears.

After Sig does his business, they return home. Caine shuffles into the kitchen, feeds the dog, and switches on the coffee machine. While it brews, he sits at the table and stares at yesterday’s newspaper. The want ads are full of jobs, and he’s already failed at least half of them.

Life would be so much simpler if he was allowed to re-enlist in the Air Force – or any branch of service at all. He doesn’t want to do private security or police work. He wants to be out in the field, where everything makes sense and the world works like it should. No question he fucked up in Panama, but at least he was with his fellow soldiers and everyone knew how to behave.

Here in New York, he’s surrounded by civilians. They act entitled and unpredictable, every last one of them a high-maintenance service industry nightmare.

With a fresh mug of coffee, Caine walks out onto the rooftop, Sig trotting at his heel. The outdoor space is larger than the enclosed living area, three beehives situated in the center of a well-tended garden. He waters the plants every day as part of the deal he made when he applied for the apartment, but Stinger and Kiza are responsible for the bees. The long-neglected dome of the observatory curves off to the right, occupying half the open space.

It’s hardly a proper apartment, more like a hut affixed to the roof of the Abrasax Building. Far less grand than everything else in the building, sure, but Caine doesn’t want anything fancy. One bedroom, a modest living room and kitchen, fully furnished – it’s more than he needs.

The former resident, an eccentric elderly woman who lived here for sixty years, was murdered a few months ago. Break-ins have been common ever since. Balem Abrasax, the penthouse resident – who also happens to be the controlling member of Abrasax Incorporated, the group that owns the building – has an extensive art collection, and the unsecured roof entry made him easy target.

Balem wanted to demolish the historic rooftop apartment, but the building’s residency board wouldn’t hear of it. They decided to find an occupant who would keep the building secure from above, the same way Stinger provides an air of security by living in the basement. Stinger could never afford this part of Manhattan on his detective’s salary, but the building board gave him a cut-rate deal on rent. Having a member of New York’s finest living on-site – one with extensive military experience prior to his career on the police force – is a selling feature for the upscale residents. The building gets extra security and attention from police patrols, and Kiza gets a nice place to live.

Stinger's been a resident for a while, and after Caine's military discharge, he recommended him for the rooftop apartment. Aside from the small detail that the residency board wanted a married couple to look after the observatory, he fit the bill perfectly: another ex-soldier, keen on security, with his own guard dog.

Kiza was the one who told Caine about the lady who wanted to study astronomy, and who also happened to need a green card. She was an ideal solution to the residency board’s requirements.

Caine has always been a rule-follower. After a chaotic childhood in a series of foster families and group homes, Caine sought out one orderly institution after another: high school JROTC, directly into his scholarship at the Air Force Academy, followed by a full-time military career. He thought aging out of the foster system was a gift - it was freedom to finally find somewhere he properly belonged, in the Pathfinders. But now he’s lost all that. He’s slipping on unfamiliar terrain out here in the real world. He’s already fucked up his life beyond repair, so what’s one more rule broken, one little illegal marriage for the sake of finding some even ground to stand on?

In the military, Caine developed all sorts of preconceived notions about Russians, and Jupiter fits none of them. He’d expected an accent at least, but Jupiter is as American as they come, and not much older than Kiza herself.

She hardly seemed like a real person on their wedding day, so beautiful and self-possessed. She only balked once, nerves getting the better of her during their vows, and she reached out for him on instinct. He held her hand until she finished repeating after the justice of the peace. Caine’s chicken-scratch signature was a shaky mess on the wedding certificate, but her handwriting was smooth and sure when she signed her name on the line labelled _spouse._

How did Jupiter not have her pick of men lining up, offering her citizenship?

Regardless, at the end of the day Caine had the documents and wedding ring as proof of how normal and stable he was, even with his military disciplinary record. He lied to the residency board, telling them that Jupiter was in Chicago for college and she wouldn’t be around much. He and Kiza agreed to let Stinger believe that Caine’s “wife” was fiction through-and-through. Informing a police captain of a green card marriage was a terrible idea, even if that man was an old military friend.

Aiming the hose at the nearest rooftop planter, he pulls the sprayer trigger and soaks the flowers. Sig yelps excitedly and snaps at the stream of water, soaking his head.

In the last month, Caine’s made the rooftop apartment into a fortress, partitioning off the adjacent roof access and securing the fire escape properly. Everything was going smoothly, until he saw Jupiter at the restaurant.

It’s not normal, the way he felt last night. He’s only met her once; they might as well have spent an hour sitting in adjoining seats on the subway, for as much as they mean to each other. And yet when Jupiter’s boyfriend put an arm across the back of her chair and directed his shark-smile at her, protectiveness burned inside Caine’s chest.

That feeling was wrong. _He_ was wrong. She did him a favor by marrying him, and if she wants to date every asshole in New York, Caine isn’t in any position to feel a single thing about it.

He’s got another five months of non-married married life to get through, and then he’s out.

The buzzer rings on the intercom in Caine’s living room, a visitor phoning from the lobby. He cuts off the hose and stares at it in consternation. He never has visitors, besides Stinger and Kiza. He doesn’t have any other friends in the city.

Caine dutifully goes to pick up the little receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr Wise? My name is Mr Ibis. I’m with the US Immigration and Naturalization Service. I’d like to talk to you and Ms Wise about your recent marriage.”

Caine leans his forehead against the wall above the intercom. The residency board of the Abrasax Building thinks Jupiter is in Chicago, but of course the US government knows she’s still in New York. It was perhaps inevitable that the INS would knock on his door; it was an inexcusable tactical oversight that he didn’t anticipate it.

His next sound is less of a sigh, and more like he’s been punched in the gut: “Oh.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Jupiter gets home from work on Tuesday, it’s after dark. Exhausted, she eats dinner with the family and retreats to the basement to work on her college applications, before her mother and Aunt Nino come down to bed.

Mikka, Jupiter’s teenaged cousin, skips down the steps with a piece of paper in her hand. “Hey Jupe, a girl called for you yesterday. Here.”

Jupiter takes the message. “Yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Sorry. I forgot,” Mikka replies with a shrug, obviously not sorry at all. She peers at the pile of papers in Jupiter’s lap. “What’s that?”

“Just something I’m studying,” Jupiter replies, pulling her knees up to hide her applications.

“Studying? But you aren’t in school anymore, lucky duck. If I were you, I’d be avoiding books as much as possible. Senior year’s been awful.”

“Thanks for the message,” Jupiter says, waving it toward her cousin, dismissing her. Mikka rolls her eyes and mutters _nerd_ as she skips back up the stairs.

The note says “Keesha,” along with a Manhattan phone number. There’s only a few reasons Kiza might call, and all of them are bad. Jupiter carefully tucks away her applications in the metal cabinet that serves as her dresser, and she goes upstairs to use the family’s single phone. She stretches the cord to its limit, just far enough to lock herself into the bathroom, the only place in the house that affords privacy.

The call rings a few times before a man picks up. Detective Apini’s accent matches his daughter’s. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Jupiter says. “Is Kiza there?”

“Hold on.” The phone crackles, being passed from one hand to another.

“Hey, this is Kiza.”

“Kiza, it’s Jupiter. What’s going on?”

“Dad, I’m gonna take this in my room!” More crackling, then the sound of a door closing. “Caine needs you to get in touch. He said something about an interview? I don’t know, but he seemed worried.”

“An interview?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I don’t _want_ to know, keep me out of it. Just call him.” Kiza rattles off his phone number, and they hang up.

Jupiter sits on the lid of the toilet and stares at the phone in her hand, gnawing on her lip. At least Kiza didn’t give Caine her home number. She’d have so much explaining to do, if a man called and asked for her. The whole family would know he existed, they’d tease and hound for details.

It’d be ideal if Caine wasn’t a person at all, if he was only a group of letters on paper, just enough to fill in the blanks she needs for her green card and her college acceptances. Instead he’s real man who works as a waiter at a restaurant, where Titus happened to take her to dinner, where things went so catastrophically wrong that Caine took pity and bailed her out.

He wouldn’t call her about that night, would he? What could he possibly have to say? _Jupiter, I didn’t realize what a loser I’d married until Sunday. I’ll need that divorce right now._

Taking a deep breath, Jupiter dials his number.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” she whispers, glancing at the thin bathroom door. “This is Jupiter. Kiza said you needed to talk to me?”

“I tried to get in touch with you yesterday,” Caine says, sounding irritated.

“Sorry. My cousin didn’t give me the message until tonight,” she replies. “Now isn’t a great time to chat. Is there something you wanted?”

“It’s not me,” he replies. “It’s the INS.”

 _Oh fuck._ Jupiter’s heart stops for an infinite second, her breath catches in her throat. She’s choking – she’s having a cardiac event – she’s going to pass out.  

Caine keeps talking: “Two agents stopped by, but they want to interview us together. They’re coming back to my apartment tomorrow evening, at five-thirty.”

“Give me your address.” Jupiter says automatically. She can’t feel her face, and her hands have gone numb.

“Do you know the Abrasax Building on 92nd Street, close to the park? I’m on the roof. The apartment number is 28B.”

Kiza definitely failed to mention that Jupiter’s green-card husband lives in the same building as Kiza’s police detective father – the same building where Jupiter cleans Katharine Dunlevy’s apartment – the same building that Titus’s family owns. New York has seven million residents, and somehow Jupiter’s entire life suddenly revolves around the Abrasax Building.

All those connections, linking up and overlapping like bomb wiring, waiting to go off. Now the INS is involved. Jupiter could be deported, shipped off to a strange country where she doesn’t belong. Jupiter’s _family_ could be deported.

What has Kiza done?

 _No, Jupiter, what have_ you _done?_ Aleksa’s voice chides in her head, in the same tone she used when she found her toddler daughter eating mud pies in Vassily’s back yard.

“I know where the Abrasax Building is. I’ll be there,” Jupiter says to Caine. She hangs up the phone, squeezing it so hard her knuckles go white. Leaning forward, she puts her head between her knees so she doesn’t pass out.

It doesn’t matter what information Kiza withheld. It matters that Jupiter was the one who got married, and now Jupiter is the one who has to deal with the fallout. It was unforgivably careless and shortsighted of her, not to think about the impact this marriage would have on her family. Vassily and Irina are legal, and so are their kids. But Jupiter’s mother and Nino aren’t, and she’s just brought the attention of the US government right down on top of her family.

Jupiter has been so, so stupid.

 _You got yourself into this mess, and you dragged along the people who matter to you_ , that voice whispers from the back of her head, in Russian. _Now you be a clever girl and get everyone out of it._

 

~~~~~

 

Jupiter tries to get to Caine’s apartment by 4:30 in the afternoon, so they’ll have time to get their story straight before the INS agents show up. She tries, but she fails, because on her wedding day she didn’t get home in time and her mother found out she wasn’t sick. Now nothing short of death will convince Aleksa to let her leave a cleaning job early.

At 5:15, Jupiter pauses at the end of the block to fish her wedding band out of her coin purse, forcing it over the knuckle on her ring finger. It’s tight and uncomfortable, heavy on her hand.

A minute later, she struts in the front door of the Abrasax Building like she really lives there. That’s the trick, she’s decided: confidence that she belongs here, with Caine. She can’t just pretend this is her life, she has to believe it, so the INS agents will believe it too.

In the meantime, if she runs into Katharine or Titus or Kiza, she’ll wing it.

The doorman is new, thank goodness. Jupiter didn’t know the previous doorman well; Aleksa dealt with him while Nino and Jupiter used the service entrance from the alley. This one’s built like a WWF wrestler, his uniform buttons straining valiantly to contain his muscles.

He lifts his eyebrows at her, stepping out from behind his desk. Jupiter waves. “Hi, I’m Jupiter Jones – I mean, Jupiter Wise. I’m keeping my maiden name, but I’m definitely Caine’s wife.”

The doorman’s face lights up. “Ms Wise – er, Ms Jones! I’m Greeghan. I heard you might come up from Chicago sometime. Do you have any luggage?”

Chicago?

Jupiter smiles and shakes her head. “No luggage, just me.” She keeps walking toward the elevator, hoping to curtail the rest of this conversation.

“It’s on the twenty-eighth floor,” Greeghan says. “When the elevator opens, you’ll see a small flight of stairs to your left. That’s your place.”

“Thanks!” Jupiter hops into the elevator and smashes the _close door_ button.

The penthouse door is intimidating, sculpted out of metal and at least twice as tall as Jupiter. The little set of stairs, on the other hand, is rickety and narrow. At the top is the roof access, which has been converted into a drab residential door.

When she knocks, Caine pulls open the door so fast, she wonders if he’s been waiting with his hand on the knob. He’s in all black again, tight jeans and t-shirt. It looks more natural on him than the stiff white oxford he wore at the steakhouse. A tattoo peeks out of the sleeve on his right arm, large and elaborate where it disappears beneath fabric.

“Well, come in,” he says gruffly, stepping aside.

The apartment isn’t the stark bachelor pad Jupiter expected. It’s cozy and slightly shabby. The walls are soothing light colors, the furniture abundant and soft. The far wall is made entirely of glass, doors and windows stacked together haphazardly, leading out to a rooftop patio.

A horse-sized dog barks wildly at the closed glass, desperate to get at the newcomer inside.

Caine brushes past Jupiter. He makes a single gesture with his hand, and the dog goes quiet, dropping into a down position. “That’s Sig. Don’t worry, he’s staying outside.”

“Sig? What does that mean?” Jupiter asks, the same way she’d ask a parent about their child’s name, because it seems polite.

“Sig Sauer. It’s a kind of gun,” Caine replies. He stalls out near the patio door, looking lost for a moment, before he does an about-face and disappears into the kitchen. The sounds of slamming cabinets and clinking dishes drift out after him. 

Jupiter closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. _Act like you belong here. Believe you belong here. You’re going to convince these INS agents that you belong here, because you really do belong here._ Toeing off her tennis shoes, she kicks them over toward the television. She turns around in a circle, surveying the room, and peers down a tiny hallway, at three closed doors. Bedroom somewhere down there, living room right here, kitchen adjacent, big patio outside. Simple layout.

"Here," Caine says, re-emerging with two cups of coffee. “Married couples do things like eating and drinking together.” 

“Right. Good!” She takes a mug from him.  

The intercom on the wall next to Jupiter buzzes, and she flinches. Caine tries to reach around her  – “Let me answer that” – but not quickly enough. She's already picked up the reciever on instinct and cradled it to her ear. 

“Yes, hello?”

“Ms Wise? This is Mr Ibis, from the INS. I’m here for your interview.”

“Come on up,” she says.

Caine stands behind her, looking flustered. "We should have something to eat, with our coffee." Like a man on a mission, he zips back into the kitchen.

Jupiter sits on the couch, then experimentally stretches out like she’s going to take a nap. _I belong here. They’re going to believe I belong here. By the time this is over, I’m going to do such a kickass job of convincing everyone, even Caine will believe I belong here._

The doorbell rings, and Sig starts up a fresh round of barking at the patio door, loud and staccato as gunshots. Jupiter's stomach lurches like she just hit the drop on a roller coaster. 

Caine reappears with an unopened bag of Cheetos. When he drops it on the coffee table, Jupiter sits up and grabs his forearm, pulling him down so their faces are level. She whispers breathlessly, “If this goes wrong, I'm going to be deported and you're going to jail. What are we going to say to them?”

“There's no time to come up with an operational plan. We have to wing it.” Caine's face is grim, but without a trace of resentment over the fact that she was late. He seems like the sort who doesn't waste energy on impractical emotions; her fear feels unweildy and extravagant, in contrast to his composure. “Don't worry, Jupiter. We’re doing this together.”

The doorbell rings again. He takes a deep breath and goes to let them in.

There are two agents, Mr Ibis and Ms Razo. They sit in chairs opposite the couch and click open briefcases, pulling out pens and thick case files. Caine stops at the patio door and gestures at Sig, quieting him again. Then Caine settles stiffly beside Jupiter on the couch.

The questions start out simple enough.

“Mr Wise, you’ve been a resident in New York for two months,” Ms Razo says. “According to our files, you’re a former Combat Controller for the Air Force, previously stationed out of North Carolina. Your discharge was characterized as ‘other than honorable,’ is that correct?”

Caine’s face is a blank mask, his voice emotionless. “That’s correct. It was an administrative discharge.”

Jupiter reaches out and takes his hand, fingers threading with his. She gives him a small, sympathetic smile; he lowers his eyes, staring at his lap.

“And your residency history, Ms Wise –”

“Ms Jones, actually. I’m keeping my maiden name. I’ve been trying to convince him to take it, too. Caine Jones has a nice ring, don’t you think?” she says, words bubbling out in a stream. Caine’s forehead furrows and his mouth opens, like he’s about to say something, but no sound comes out.

Ms Razo smiles. “How modern. Ms Jones, you came illegally into the country as an infant?”

“My dad was murdered in Russia, before I was born. My mother wanted a better life for me, so she stayed behind in St Petersburg and sent me to live here.”

“That was a huge violation of the law, in and of itself,” Mr Ibis says.

Jupiter bites her lip. “I know.”

“Recent events have overtaken that state of affairs, though. As long as everything is in order with your marriage, the government won’t pursue those charges. You two met here in New York?”

“Chicago,” Caine says quickly. “We met in Chicago, through a mutual friend. Jupiter is studying astronomy, which is why we took the apartment.” He gestures toward the patio door, and for the first time Jupiter notices the large, round copper structure outside.

Holy crap, is that an observatory? Caine’s apartment has an _observatory_ attached? In Manhattan?

Caine tugs her hand, pulling her attention back inside the room. “I love astronomy,” Jupiter offers faintly. “My dad was an astronomy professor at the university in St Petersburg.”

“I’d like to hear more of your story, where you lovebirds first ran into each other and everything,” Ms Razo says, leaning forward like a friend asking for gossip over coffee.

Caine glances at Jupiter. “I was –”

“We had a –” she says simultaneously.

“Go ahead, you’re so much better at telling it,” Caine gestures at her. He looks like someone ordered him to smile at gunpoint.

“We met at the doctor’s office,” Jupiter blurts out, for lack of anything better to say. “I was there for a procedure, and I fainted. Caine caught me.”

“He was in the room during your medical procedure?” Mr Ibis asks, tilting his head at Caine like a bird before he jots something in the case file.

“No, that was afterward,” Caine says. “Kiza was in the waiting room, to drive her home. I just happened to have an appointment on the same day.”

“That’s right! Crazy coincidence,” Jupiter says. Ms Razo stares at the two of them without blinking, her face unreadable. It’s beyond unsettling. “Anyway, when my procedure was over and I walked out of the office, I fainted dead away. Good thing Caine was there. He was my knight in shining armor.” She pats his bicep affectionately. 

The phone rings in the kitchen, loud and shrill. Jupiter flinches. All four of them pause and listen, staring at each other, until Mr Ibis says, “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

Jupiter turns to Caine. “Could it be for me, darling?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I’ll just – I’ll go take care of it.” He hops up and leaves the room. A second later, she hears a frantic hushed whisper: _no,_ _Stinger_ and _you can’t come up now_.

While he’s talking, Ms Razo puts her briefcase and papers onto the coffee table and studies Jupiter, cataloguing her body language. “May I use your restroom, please?”

Oh … _oh._

“It’s down here,” Jupiter says, standing and leading her into the short hallway. Three closed doors at the end, and she has no idea which is the bathroom. This is a horrible version of Let’s Make a Deal, and if Jupiter chooses the wrong door she won’t go home with a Zonk, she’ll be deported to the USSR.

Ms Razo shifts behind her, waiting. Whispering a quick prayer in Russian, Jupiter reaches for the right-hand door. A mop and ironing board tumble out, crashing to the floor.

“That was the bathroom, before the renovation,” Jupiter says, managing not to stammer, shoving the things back into the closet. She reaches for the door straight ahead, and finds a bedroom. “This used to be the closet. So that one’s the bathroom,” she sighs, pointing at the last door.

Ms Razo walks into the bathroom and turns around. The expression on her face is like an executioner’s, regarding Jupiter with the sort of remorseless pity reserved for the condemned. She closes the door and locks it with a _click_. Jupiter suddenly realizes that the medicine cabinet probably has a single toothbrush in it, and all sorts of men’s grooming supplies, and nothing to indicate she’s ever spent a single night here.

Alone in the hallway, Jupiter blinks back tears. “Shit.”

Ms Razo emerges from the restroom a few minutes later. She wordlessly nods at Mr Ibis, and he immediately tucks the case file into his briefcase and locks it. They’ll both be required to come into the INS office the following Monday, he informs them crisply, for a more thorough interview.

The two agents leave, and Caine rounds on Jupiter in confusion.

“She asked to use the restroom while you were on the phone. I didn’t know where it was,” she says, panic clawing up her esophagus and throttling her words. All her manufactured confidence is gone like a puff of smoke. “She snooped around and realized I don’t have a toothbrush here.”

Caine doesn't falter, still in tactical mode, making decisions with the cool, detached demeanor of someone who thrives in intensely stressful situations.

“You'll come back on Friday, and you’ll stay with me for the weekend. You’ll put your toothbrush in the bathroom,” he tells her, calm and reassuring. “We’ll study each other like mission briefings, get a handle on the terrain, figure out their likely points of attack. By the time Monday rolls around, we’ll have this situation entirely under control.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist giving Caine his barking gun, even in an au setting. Hence, Sig Sauer the dog.


	4. Chapter 4

On Friday Jupiter tells her mother that Katharine Dunlevy needs a housesitter for the weekend, and she stays in Manhattan after her last cleaning job. Her stomach is so full of dread, it feels heavier than the duffel bag she drags off the elevator on the penthouse level of the Abrasax Building.

When she knocks on Caine’s door, Sig starts barking inside, ferocious and intimidating. No one else answers. Jupiter sits on the steps to wait, elbows on knees and chin in her hands. The dog keeps howling.

After a few minutes, the penthouse door clunks loudly as someone unbolts it from the inside. It swings open soundlessly on well-greased hinges to reveal a lanky man. He's wearing a black silk bathrobe, tied loosely at his waist and hanging open across his sculpted abs. His dark red hair is slicked back, and freckles dapple his paperwhite skin.

When he catches sight of Jupiter his eyes narrow, a hardly audible gasp escaping his parted lips.

“You shouldn’t be here. You _can’t_ be here,” he says in a low wheeze, like he just shotgunned a glass of rubbing alcohol.

“Sorry,” Jupiter replies automatically, because the man is right – she shouldn’t be here. She lies, “Except that’s my place, right up those stairs.”

“Not anymore. I saw to it,” he says, stepping into the lobby and tilting his head. He’s regarding her like a lizard might regard a fly. “Who are you really?”

Jupiter stands up, because this dude’s creep factor is off the charts. If she’s going to have to make a run for it, it’s better to start on her feet. “I’m – um, I’m Jupiter Jones. It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Jupiter Jones. Mmm, I see,” he says, as though he doesn’t see at all. “What’s your business here?”

“Just waiting for Caine.” She gestures again at the closed rooftop door, and the barking dog.

The man’s green eyes flicker to her hand, registering the gold wedding band. His eyebrows lift, the rest of his face staying stationary. “Ah, you’re Ms Wise, I take it?”

“I like to think of Caine as Mr Jones,” she replies with a too-wide placating grin, digging the toe of her sneaker into the tile, like a track runner on the starting block.

The elevator dings, and Caine emerges with a plastic bag of Chinese takeout. He’s fumbling with his keys, and when he sees Jupiter and the penthouse resident together, he drops them on the ground.

Relieved, Jupiter scuttles over to pluck the food from his hands. “Caine, I’m glad you’re home! I forgot my keys.”

“Good evening, sir,” he says, leaning down to pick up the keys.

“Your dog is a nuisance, Mr Wise. He’s disturbing my sleep,” the skinny man says, gesturing toward the barking door. “Keep him quiet, or I’ll call animal control and have him put down.”

“He’s just doing his job, keeping guard,” Caine replies, frowning. “Sorry about the noise, I’ll keep a closer eye on him.”

“You do that.” With one lingering glare at Jupiter, bathrobe man flaps back into his penthouse.

Caine steps past her to his apartment. As he unlocks the door, she whispers, “What’s the deal with Lestat?”

He glances over, uncomprehending. “His name isn’t Lestat, it’s Balem Abrasax. He’s the CEO of Abrasax Incorporated, the group that owns the building.”

It dawns on Jupiter – that must be Titus’s older brother. The family resemblance is practically nonexistent.

When Caine steps inside, Sig immediately starts bouncing. He’s well-trained enough to not jump onto his owner, but he does a jig in place, his tail wagging so hard that his entire back end wiggles.

“Hey, Sig,” Caine says, dropping a large hand onto the dog’s head and scratching his ears. “This is Jupiter.”

Jupiter leans down and reaches out toward the dog. He calms down long enough to sniff, and then experimentally licks her. His tail starts up again and his tongue hangs out, friendly and curious. Jupiter puts down the food and gets on her knees, to better stroke his face.

“What a beautiful dog. How can that mean man think you’re a nuisance? I see in your eyes, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Sig licks her face and she ends up in a pile of overenthusiastic fur, giggling and hugging him while he tries to fit his massive body into her lap.

When Jupiter looks up, she finds Caine staring at her with his mouth open. “He’s not usually friendly with strangers.”

“I love dogs. I’ve always loved dogs,” Jupiter replies with a shrug. “They tend to love me too.”

“Sig, come,” Caine says. The dog licks her cheek one last time and bounds over to his owner. “I should go. He needs a walk. Make yourself at home.”

Jupiter picks up the Chinese food and heads for the kitchen. Caine leaves a few seconds later, the door slamming behind him.

While he’s gone, she takes her time exploring the apartment. The kitchen is fully stocked with cooking supplies, but bare of food. The fridge only holds a few beers and a dozen take-out boxes. They’ll have to go to the market tomorrow morning. Caine’s fashion palette appears limited to black, if the pile of dirty laundry in his bedroom is any indication. The bathroom could stand a cleaning, but Jupiter’s not about to scrub a toilet on the weekend.

The patio is one of the most beautiful things Jupiter has ever seen. She edges around the beehives, stopping to admire the garden and inhale the scent of the flowers.

The object on the far side of the roof calls her like a siren. It’s a copper dome, about fifteen feet high and in diameter. There’s a closed portal at the top, meant to slide open when the telescope is in use. Jupiter pulls open the single rickety metal door, wincing as it squeals in protest.

The telescope inside is antique and neglected, but impressive nonetheless. She moves to touch it, stroking the cool metal surface. The solid brass is badly tarnished, in need of polishing.

Beside Jupiter’s bed at Vassily’s house is a picture of her father, Maximilian Jones. He’s sitting in a wingback chair, beaming at his brand new brass telescope. It was a gift from Aleksa on a Christmas long ago, before Jupiter was born; he died trying to stop thieves from stealing it. This telescope on Caine’s rooftop is five times larger than her father’s, but otherwise it’s identical.

She’s so engrossed with the telescope, she doesn’t notice the exercise equipment scattered on the floor, and she trips over a dumbbell, sprawling to the ground.

“Ouch,” she groans at no one in particular, rubbing the back of her head.

“What are you doing in here?” Caine stands in the door, staring at her. Sig leaps past him, coming to lick Jupiter’s face.

“Why did you cram this amazing observatory full of sweaty workout gear?” she retorts. He reaches out a hand and helps her to her feet. “It’s not a storage shed.”

“I use this stuff, and there’s nowhere else to put it,” he replies.

“But you don’t use the telescope.” It isn’t a question, because the answer is obvious, from its neglected state. She thinks of her father, and her mother, and Aunt Nino, and how she’s made such a mess out of her own life in the last month, and how much she’s let her family down. Bile pools in the back of her throat. “How can you not use a telescope like this? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Caine’s forehead wrinkles in bafflement. “It’s just a chunk of brass and glass. Is all that stuff about college and astronomy true? I thought it was another lie, the way you change the subject every time it comes up.”

Jupiter crosses her arms. “Of course it’s true. I’m filling out my applications, I’ve ordered my transcripts. Why else would I get myself into a situation like this, with someone like you?”

His eyes go wide for an instant, and then his expression shifts into neutral, the same way it did when the INS agents asked about his military record. Jupiter recoils in immediate regret, rocking back onto her heels, an apology on her tongue.

Caine doesn’t give her a chance to say another word. He’s already at the patio door, disappearing into the apartment, mumbling something about dinner over his shoulder.

 

~~~~~

 

Caine told himself it wouldn’t be a big deal, living with another person for a weekend. He’s spent most of his life bunking with someone or another – fellow foster kids, college roommates, and his squad members. Maybe the last few months alone have made him soft, or maybe it’s because this woman has a legal claim to him that no one else on Earth has ever had, but he wasn’t remotely prepared for sharing space with Jupiter Jones.

He sits at the table and starts to eat dinner directly out of the take-out boxes. She flits into the kitchen behind him, pulling down china and forks and napkins, chattering on about someone named Lyudmila’s famous latke recipe and her plans to cook tomorrow. She seems to know his kitchen better than he does; she even finds serving spoons somewhere, and plops them into the fried rice and General Tso’s.

She’s moving so much and talking so steadily, it’s making him dizzy. She keeps filling up his water glass and handing him food he doesn’t ask for, like she’s trying to apologize for what she said in the observatory without saying the words _I’m sorry_.

They ought to start discussing their interviews on Monday. He ought to ask questions about her childhood pets and what brand of toothpaste she prefers. He needs to catalog all that information, but right now he’s too fascinated to bother.

The longer Caine stays quiet and watches, the more insistent Jupiter gets, until she’s practically hand-feeding him lo mein.

It occurs to him that she isn’t being solicitous – she’s being assertive, choosing what he needs and when he needs it. She’s taken control of the situation, to make herself comfortable and to settle him down.

It also occurs to him that he likes it.

That’s … interesting.

When she hops out of her chair for the umpteenth time, he finally waves his chopsticks in surrender.

“Alright, your majesty.” It feels like the kind of thing he ought to say to put her at ease, a misfired attempt at teasing. Why can’t he just make normal jokes, like normal people do?

“What?” Jupiter’s momentum disappears and she plops into her chair, staring at him.

“Your majesty,” he repeats, aiming again for sarcastic but landing squarely at admiration. If she’s been saying _I’m sorry_ without words, he just offered forgiveness with a nickname. “Queen of the apartment. You haven’t touched your food. I’m capable of finishing all six boxes by myself, but then you’ll be hungry. Please eat.”

The tightness around Jupiter’s eyes disappears, and she eats.

The situation plays out again when it comes time to settle sleeping arrangements. Caine plans to take the couch and give her the bed, because it seems the polite thing to do. He even laundered his sheets in preparation. The antiquated couch is lumpy, and he’s done his share of sleeping on the bare ground out on assignment. He doesn’t mind lumps.

Jupiter won’t hear of it. She marches into his bedroom and rifles through his closet, plucking out a spare sheet and blanket and pillow, and makes up the couch for herself. She tucks the sheet around the cushions and shoos him off to sleep in his own bed.

“Good night, your majesty,” he says, before he disappears down the hallway. It’s dark, but he sees the flash of white teeth when she smiles.  

Caine wakes up before dawn, as usual. Sig isn’t on the bed. He pulls on a pair of shorts and quietly moves through the apartment, not wanting to wake Jupiter. The couch is already empty, sheets and blankets folded and set aside. For a moment he thinks she bailed – she ditched him, he’s going to have to cope with the INS on his own. Then he notices that the patio door is unlocked, and there’s a light on inside the observatory.

Jupiter’s polishing the telescope, Sig resting at her feet. The dog hops up and comes over to greet Caine, tongue lolling. She glances at him, then does a double take, her gaze lingering at the ink on his right arm, then sliding down his bare chest to where his athletic shorts hang low on his hips.

“You’re up early,” he says.

“I’m up every morning at 4:45 for work. Even without an alarm clock, I hear the _beep-beep_ inside my head.”

Caine knows exactly what she means. He still hears reveille at 6:00 on the dot, like a tape he can never turn off.

“Sig was giving me sad puppy eyes, so I fed him. I hope that’s okay. Do you – um –” she’s trying very hard, and failing, to keep her eyes on his face “— do you need some privacy, or something?”

“I was going to exercise,” he says, gesturing toward his dumbbells. He ought to have put on a shirt, but he pegged Jupiter as the sort who would sleep until noon and thought he’d be out here alone. “I’ll just take Sig for a run in the park instead.”

Jupiter hangs the polishing cloth on the telescope. “I’ll come, too. We can get a start on – how’d you phrase it? – learning each other like mission briefings.”

Jupiter manages to keep pace with him through most of the run. He increases his speed by degrees, as an experiment, to figure out when she’ll get winded enough to stop asking him about his life. He was the one who suggested a weekend debriefing in preparation for Monday. Now that Jupiter’s cannonballed right into personal questions, it’s dawned on him that no matter how much he dresses up this experience in military language, the next two days won’t be anything like standard mission prep. Everything is going to be much more intimate.

It’s too late to panic and abort the operation; Jupiter’s already sleeping on his couch. He’s gotten himself into this predicament, he’ll have to bear through.  

When they circle back around to 92nd Street, Jupiter collapses spread-eagled on a patch of grass, to catch her breath. Sig falls on top of her, panting happily, and she buries her hands in his thick fur.

“What a good boy, you ran so fast,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his head and rubbing his ears. “Good job.”

The sight of Jupiter’s hands carding through Sig’s fur is mesmerizing. Caine thinks about those slender fingers stroking his own hair, her voice whispering in his ear about what a good boy he is, what a good job he did. The idea makes him even shorter of breath than he already is, heat blossoming in his gut, just below his bellybutton.

Jupiter’s face is pink from exertion, and her thighs look so strong in her tiny red athletic shorts. She catches Caine staring. Grinning, she crosses her legs at the knees and swings one calf back and forth, like a metronome. “You should sit down, before you pass out.”

Caine turns away to wipe his dripping face on his shirtsleeve. She’s teasing, she’s mocking. She wouldn’t be flirting, not with him.

She needs him for her citizenship, and any attraction he feels is inappropriate because it’ll inevitably come across as obligation, like she owes him something. She’s not flirting, but even if she was, he can’t take advantage of the arrangement they have.

“Hey, your majesty’s the delicate one who collapsed onto the ground, not me," he says. "The market’s just down the street. We’ll stop on the way back. Sig, come.”

Sig gives him a baleful glance from where he’s snuggled against Jupiter before reluctantly obeying.

Caine has a very precise grocery shopping routine. He takes the most efficient route through the store, milk to bread to beer, and he’s done buying for the week. Jupiter’s only shopping routine seems to be “read the packaging on every food item in sight.” She’s meandering with a basket, loading it up with more food than he can eat in a month.

Caine is going to go mental, waiting for her to finish. While she picks up fruit, squeezing and sniffing it, he seeks refuge on the next aisle. In his hurry, he barrels straight into Kalique Abrasax.

“Caine!” she sighs, clasping her hands in delight. “I saw Sig leashed to the phone booth outside and I knew you were hiding in here somewhere.”

“Miss Abrasax, you’re out early,” Caine says. It’s probably rude, but he’d rather the woman left before she notices Jupiter.

“Always so formal, _Mr Wise_. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Kalique?” She glimmers from head to toe – glitter sparkling in her teased-out hair, a gold sequined blouse fluttering over her tiny acid-wash jean skirt. Even her artfully ripped tights have metallic thread in them. She leans close, grasping Caine’s bicep conspiratorially, and the scent of cigarettes and perfume wash over him. “I’ll tell you a secret – I’m not out early. I never went to bed! I’m on my way home now. You’ll walk with me.”

“I can’t today, I’m –”

“Hi,” Jupiter pipes up from just behind him, at his elbow. He shifts onto his right foot, instinctively moving to shield her.

Kalique blinks and drops his arm, looking from Caine to Jupiter, processing their physical proximity. Jupiter elbows Caine in the ribs, and he reluctantly slides over so she can stand beside him.

When he doesn’t immediately offer an introduction, Kalique chirps, “Caine, who’s this?”

“I’m Jupiter,” she replies, sliding her hand around the inside of Caine’s elbow. Her gold wedding band glints where her hand rests on his forearm.

So much for keeping this encounter low-key.

“Jupiter, this is Kalique Abrasax,” Caine says. “She lives in the building, too.”

“Caine’s wife! My dear, it’s wonderful to finally meet you! He’s been holed up by himself for so long, I thought you were a figment of his imagination,” Kalique replies. She has an eerie way of fixating on something, like a cat after a laser-pointer, and right now her attention is devoted to Jupiter, from tennis shoes to ponytail.

Jupiter eases closer to Caine, her grip on him tightening and her flank pressing into his hip, as though she’s decided she made a mistake and wants to hide behind him, after all.

Kalique notices. “You mustn’t be worried. The few times Caine has spoken of you, he only ever says glowing things. Anyway, he’s a monk up there in his bird’s nest on the roof, he’s never got anyone in or out. Whenever I knock, just to be neighborly, he won’t even let me through the door!”

Goddammit. Kalique should just use the store’s intercom system to announce how dead Caine’s social life is. Follow it up with the tidbit that he’s so unemployed and bored he’s started watching _Blossom_ every week, for lack of anything better to do.

Still plastered to his side, Jupiter notices the flustered expression on his face. She rallies and decides to change the topic. “Caine, you didn’t mention we have a neighbor with such great fashion sense. Is that blouse Gucci? It’s stunning, it goes wonderfully with your hair.”

Kalique’s smile widens. “You have a good eye. You should visit my flat, I’ll lend you a few pieces.” Her entire face lights up, as if she’s just had an idea. “Stop by tonight! I’m having a dinner party, you must come.”

“That’s very kind, but we’re busy,” Jupiter says.

“You can’t be busy, not when I’m offering designer clothes!”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, the words firm and final.

Kalique’s pout melts and she swivels, turning to Caine. “Caine, you can’t decline the invitation, I refuse to hear it. We have building business to discuss, most of the residency board will be in attendance. If Jupiter’s busy, we’ll miss her, but you absolutely must be there. Nine o’clock, not a minute later.” Before he can answer, she waves. “It was lovely to meet you Jupiter, I’m certain I’ll see you around.”

With that, Kalique glides out of the market, and Jupiter starts to breathe again. She doesn’t let go of him, though, still pressing against him from knee to shoulder. His arm instinctively wants to circle around her, wrap her up until she feels safe again, but Jupiter’s still got his bicep in a death-grip.

“Remember the man I was at dinner with on Sunday?” she asks.

“Your boyfriend?” Caine says, looking down at her.

Jupiter throws her head back and laughs, like he just cracked the most hilarious joke in the universe. “God, no! Definitely not my boyfriend. That was our first and our last date. I have an uncanny knack for choosing Mr Wrong, and he was no exception. Did you recognize him?”

Caine shakes his head, mercilessly extinguishing the relief that sparks in his chest.

“It was Titus Abrasax, Kalique’s brother. The king of all Mr Wrongs.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Jupiter rocks sideways, bumping her forehead into his shoulder a few times, like she’d bang her head into a wall. “I don’t think he told Kalique about me. My name is weird enough, surely she’d have connected the dots already. You don’t suppose he’s staying with Kalique or Balem in our building, do you?”

“No, he isn’t. Greeghan would’ve mentioned if we had a guest like that. It’s part of the deal with my lease – cheap rent, and I help out with security.”

Caine’s heart thumps against his ribcage, sparking again. _Our building_ , Jupiter said. She saw Kalique, and she plastered herself to him like she was staking out territory. Not even a full day into the weekend, and he might as well be following Sig’s example, crawling into Jupiter’s lap and licking her face at every opportunity.

What the hell is wrong with him? He’s never been one to form quick attachments; he’s not one to form attachments at all. It’d be one thing if he only wanted to sleep with her. That craving is familiar and manageable. This is different – he isn’t completely dreading the forced intimacy of this weekend. He's interested. His curiosity is piqued.

So maybe he’s infatuated. She's young, and she deserves someone with less baggage, someone with more prospects. The sooner this is over and she's away from him, the better off she’ll be. Then Caine can move on and figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

He just has to get through two days.

“I didn’t know you lived in the same building as Titus’s family. Believe me, I wasn’t trying to make this situation weirder than it already is.” Jupiter lets go of Caine's arm, reaching up to press her thumb between his eyebrows. “Ease up, you could crack a walnut right here, when you’re brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.” He wants to close his eyes and lean into her hand, but he keeps them open and watches her grin instead. Plucking the grocery basket from her hand, he says, “We’ll take the service stairs. Even if Titus visits, we’ll never run into him there.”


	5. Chapter 5

After the long run, climbing twenty-eight flights of stairs turns Jupiter’s legs into jelly. She wobbles into Caine’s apartment and collapses on the sofa, gasping for breath. Sig hops up beside her, panting in tandem.

“He knows he isn’t supposed to be on the couch,” Caine says, lifting a judgmental eyebrow at the dog, as if Sig is capable of offering explanation for how shamelessly he’s nosing Jupiter’s hands, begging for attention. She opens her arms, cuddling the big pile of fur. Caine sighs in defeat before going to put away the groceries.

They take turns showering. Jupiter sits on the couch in fresh clothes and washed hair, and while Caine cleans up she pulls out her notepad and starts taking notes. First entry: grooming habits. Caine spends forty minutes in the bathroom and emerges looking exactly the same as he did going in, albeit less smelly. What does he spend all his time doing in there? Jupiter doesn’t even take that long to shower.

The two of them dive right into debriefing. It’s more thrilling and voyeuristic than she expected, having carte blanche to be as nosy as she wants, jotting notes about everything that catches her fancy. Caine’s favorite food, his brand of deodorant and aftershave, the name of his college roommate and his best subject in school.

Caine’s questions are rapid-fire and methodical – her hair gel, her perfume, her favorite restaurant. He doesn’t write down a single word but seems to remember everything, like some sort of Jupiter savant.

For lunch, she pulls out a blanket and spreads it on the patio, and they have a rooftop picnic. Bees circle the two of them, looking for pollen. Jupiter absently shoos them away from her soda.

“We have to know more than just basic facts,” she says, swallowing a bite of sandwich. “We need to know each other’s dumb habits. For instance, I eat Golden Grahams straight from the box while I watch _Star Trek_ on Monday nights.”

He freezes in the midst of taking a drink, Coke can lifted halfway to his mouth. “You watch _Star Trek_?”

“You don’t?” Jupiter retorts, arching an eyebrow. “Fine then, what do you watch?”

“Whatever’s on.”

“You’re telling me you don’t catch any shows on a regular basis? Liar.”

Caine brings the soda can to his mouth and mumbles something into it as he drinks.

Jupiter stares at him. “Did you – did you just say _Blossom_?”

“I caught it by accident a few times. The characters are interesting.”

“I love that show!” she says, practically bouncing in delight. Caine squints, like he’s suspicious she’s making fun. “I was worried about missing it tonight. We’re watching it together, that’s settled.”

“You’re serious?”

Jupiter nods, waving a bee away from her face. “My cousin Mikka got me into it. She’s crazy about floppy hats with daisies, she wears one every day.”

“You have a cousin named Mikka?” It’s probably a bid to change topics, but Jupiter should tell him about her family, anyway.

“Nine of us live in my uncle’s house in Brighton Beach. Uncle Vassily and Aunt Irina are citizens, and so are all their kids – Vladie, Mikka and Moltka.” She takes another bite of sandwich, chewing and swallowing before she continues. “My mom and Aunt Nino aren’t legal, though. They don’t know what I’ve done” – she glances at the ring on her left hand – “and I won’t let them get hurt because of it. No matter what happens to me, the INS can’t know about them. I have to protect my family.”

“I’ll help you keep them safe,” Caine says with the solemn intensity of someone swearing an oath, like he’s shouldering the weight of her responsibility. His bright hazel eyes meet hers, steady and sincere.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jupiter’s cheeks turn warm and her chest constricts. For the first time in days, her sense of guilt isn’t quite so suffocating. “Thanks.”

He nods. “I don’t have any family to speak of. But I probably ought to tell you that Kiza’s dad – Stinger Apini – was my CO in the Pathfinders. He got me into this apartment.”

“Ah. I’ve wondered how you knew Kiza.” She looks down, pulling the bread off one side of her sandwich and pinching it between her thumb and index finger, smashing it flat. “Can I ask a question?”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“What’s an ‘other than honorable’ discharge?”

Caine eats half his sandwich in two enormous bites, slowly chewing and swallowing. Jupiter waits for that blank look to slide over his face again, the indifferent mask he puts on when someone mentions his military record, but his expression stays open and thoughtful.

“It’s not as bad as a ‘dishonorable discharge,’ but it’s definitely worse than ‘honorable,’” he says. “It means I can never serve in the military again, and it’s a permanent mark on my criminal record. I didn’t end up with any jail time after the court martial, though, so I suppose that’s something.”

“What was the court martial for?” He frowns at her, like she’s tread too far down this path, and she backpedals: “I realize it’s none of my business. I thought the INS would expect me to know. I’m just trying to understand, so we're ready for Monday.”

“It was during that operation in Panama last year,” he says, glowering at the blanket. “I disobeyed an order, and people got killed.”

“You killed them?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He chugs the rest of the can. “I’m going to get another drink.”

He comes back with an extra soda for her. She shifts the topic away from his military experience, and asks about his favorite music instead. The rest of the afternoon speeds by in pleasant conversation, the two of them stretched out on the blanket, lounging side-by-side on the sun-soaked patio.

For dinner, Jupiter drafts Caine into cooking latkes. He’s not as clueless in the kitchen as she expects; when she tells him to shred potatoes, he pulls out the cheese grater and gets to work. He’s particularly enthusiastic about catching the fried latkes on a plate when she flips them out of the pan. Jupiter flings them farther and farther, in more erratic directions, until they’re practically flying into the living room. He catches every last one with a triumphant cry, like he just scored a goal at the Olympics.

They sit on the couch to eat, close enough to bump elbows, and they watch _Blossom_.

Today is the happiest and most relaxed Jupiter has felt in ages. As Caine washes dishes and tidies the kitchen, she’s grateful that they get to do this again tomorrow. She idly wonders if there’s a way to prolong the weekend, to delay their INS interviews until later in the week so she can stay longer.

Once the kitchen’s clean, Caine goes to change clothes, because he still has to make an appearance at Kalique’s party. He emerges from his bedroom in combat boots and a dark grey suit. It’s a few years out of style, more fitted than the baggy double-breasted suits popular this season. Somehow, the look works on him.

“I won’t be long,” he says, making quick work of his tie. “I’ll think of a reason to leave early.”

“You should use the newlywed excuse,” Jupiter replies from the couch.

“The newlywed excuse?”

“Y’know, newlyweds go at it like rabbits. We can’t stand to be apart, because we can’t keep our hands off each other.”

“We’re like that, are we?”

“Sure we are,” Jupiter replies, feigning offense. “You’re telling me that if we were really married, you’d be able to keep your hands off of me?”

“First of all your premise is flawed, because we _are_ really married, according to the legally binding paper we both signed in front of a judge. Beyond that, I hadn’t thought about it,” Caine lies – she knows he’s lying, because she caught him staring wolfishly at her in the park, flushed and sweating and full of adrenaline. Now his appraisal is cooler, more mockingly scientific. “I don’t know. I’m used to taller women, I’m not familiar with the logistics of handling someone so short.”

“Short?!” Jupiter squeaks, hopping to her feet and standing up straight. “I’ll have you know that five foot three is nearly average!”

“Nearly average?” he chuckles. “That’s like being ‘hardly normal.’”

“Listen here, Caine Wise, there are probably lots of reasons you aren’t man enough to handle me, but my height isn’t the issue,” she says, because he’s shot past teasing and into personal insults. Stepping in front of him, she puts her palm atop her head and draws out her flat hand, measuring herself against him. “See, I’m above your chin. What are you, five-eleven?”

“Six-three,” he replies.

“Which means you’re six-one. I know how men measure, with their pathological need to add inches. You’re not even a full foot taller.”

He snorts. “I’m not the only one adding inches. Five-three? No way. You can barely reach the light switches.”

“Shut up, I can reach just fine.” With both hands, Jupiter grips the rounded heads of his shoulders and steps atop his boots. There’s no room between them now, bodies pressed together as she rises onto her tiptoes. Their faces are level. Grinning triumphantly, she crows, “Told you!”

The amused skepticism in Caine’s expression softens, his gaze darting toward her mouth. Jupiter inhales, her chest expanding against his.

“Admit that the logistics would work,” she says, more breathlessly than she intends. “Admit that you couldn’t keep your hands off me, if we were really married.”

“Fine, your majesty, I concede the logistics would work,” he replies, one side of his mouth lifting into a smirk. He still hasn’t touched her, his hands hanging by his side. He tilts his head, gaze flickering to her lips again. “But your premise is still flawed. Marriage is a real, legal thing we did. We’ll both be in trouble if you slip up and say something like that on Monday.”

Now would be the time to step off his feet, let go of his shoulders, put some appropriate distance between them. But Jupiter doesn’t want to, because for the first time since she met Caine, she’s fully, tangibly grasped the fact that this man is her ’til-death-do-us-part _husband_. She’s standing in front of a potential lifetime of waking up in each other’s arms, laundering their underwear in the same load, and squabbling over who gets the last bowl of Cocoa Puffs for dinner.

“I like it when you say that,” she whispers.

“‘I concede’?”

“That’s nice too. But I really like the ‘your majesty’ part.”

He smiles bashfully, averting his eyes. He really does make her feel like royalty here in this rooftop apartment, a queen in a tower with her animal companions and her dashing knight to keep her company. Everything is so safe, and her other life doesn’t exist. Maybe if she faceplants into this reality she won’t have to go back to scrubbing toilets on Monday. Maybe she won’t be deported to a foreign country.

Jupiter is suddenly aware of how close Caine’s bedroom is, of how easy it would be to shove him down the hall and pin him onto his mattress. She’s positive he would let her do it, even though he’s so much stronger than she is. Her thighs tighten at the prospect of straddling his powerful hips, at how gentle he is with her, at how easily he could pick her up and carry her around if she asked him to.

She wants to know if his mouth feels as soft as it looks.

She swallows, her throat tight with longing and her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Do you suppose we ought to test the height logistics more, for the sake of science?”

Caine hesitates, his bottom lip sticking out enticingly. He’s so solid and strapping, it’s like holding onto a tree. An affable, breathing tree that smells like soap and aftershave, and something else warm and spicy that Jupiter can’t begin to name, something delicious. She wants to bite him, and find out how he tastes.

“No,” he murmurs, without conviction.

Her eyes widen and she doesn’t bother hiding the disappointment from her face.  The arches of her feet are cramping from staying on tiptoe.

His forehead furrows with indecision. “Well, maybe.”

Caine’s hands find the curve of her waist, palms flat against her hips. He’s staring at her like a kid pressed against a toy shop window, face creased with longing for everything he can’t have. She’s throwing herself at him, so what’s his problem? Does he have an STD, or secret ties to the mob, or another wife hidden away in Florida?

“Go ahead,” she whispers, tipping her chin forward and giving him a reassuring smile.

His eyelids flutter and he swallows, exhaling a puff of air at the corner of her mouth. He leans in, his hands bearing her weight, so she’s fully pressed against him.

The phone in the kitchen rings, deafeningly shrill.

Caine practically leaps out of his skin, like he’s been caught smashing the toy store window and stealing Jupiter-shaped teddy bears. Suddenly she’s standing on her own feet and he’s backing away, flushed and flustered.

“I’ll – ahem – I’ll get that.” He flees into the kitchen.

It’s someone named Mr Maledictus, Kalique’s personal assistant, phoning to remind Mr Wise about his current social obligation. Caine stammers goodbye to Jupiter, tells her to make herself at home, and leaves.

She stares after him, licking her lips. Make herself at home? It would probably be creepy and inappropriate if she went into his bedroom and buried her face in his pillow and inhaled until she popped.

Jupiter resists the urge to wallow on Caine’s bed and goes out to the observatory to finish polishing the telescope, in anticipation of using it when the sun goes down.

Afterward she indulges her inner busybody, nosing around in the bedroom closet. When she dug through last night, she’d glimpsed a neatly-folded military uniform hidden under the spare blanket and pillow. She finds the tidy stack again. Snagged threads jut off the left breast of his suit coat, scars on the fabric where medals and bars of rank were stripped away. She runs her finger across the bumps, wondering about all the combat missions he went through to earn those medals and bars of rank, wondering about how all of it came undone in the blink of an eye.

Sig barks twice, and the apartment door opens and closes.

Stomach cold with embarrassment at being caught snooping, Jupiter hastily folds the uniform and closes the closet, springing out of the bedroom. “That was fast. I told you the newlywed excuse would work like a charm!”

The man standing in the living room is definitely not Caine. Jupiter draws up short, her embarrassed panic shifting into something more wary.

He’s slightly older, maybe in his fifties, a hint of silver in his dirty blond hair. His suit is rumpled from being worn all day, not by someone sitting at a desk but by someone whose work hours are active.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?” the man asks. She recognizes his voice, even though she’s only heard it once on the phone. The accent is distinctive enough.

“You’re Kiza’s dad,” she says.

“I know who I am,” he retorts, taking a few steps toward her. If he’s trying to be intimidating, it’s working. She has to force herself to stand still, instead of retreating. “I asked who you are.”

“I’m Jupiter,” she replies.

The man frowns. “Bullshit. Jupiter doesn’t exist. Who are you really?”

This conversation has taken a hard right turn into the existentially surreal. She puts her hands on her hips. “I’m Jupiter. I really do exist. What are you doing in Caine’s apartment?”

“I’m here to tend the bees. They belong to Kiza, but she’s out of town on a weekend for entomology majors.” He crosses his arms, thunderstruck. “Caine is _married_? Is _actually_ bloody married, to a real woman?”

“That’s what the paperwork says. Do you need to sit down? Can I get you a drink? Are you all right, Detective Apini?” Jupiter says, because he’s gone pale.

“No, no I’m fine. If you’re Caine’s wife, I suppose you ought to call me Stinger instead of Detective Apini.” He backs up until his knees hit the couch, and then he sits anyway. “He told me the marriage was a lie.” He frowns. “He didn’t invite me to the wedding!”

“It was a quick thing at city hall, we didn’t make a fuss,” Jupiter rushes to assure him, because he’s obviously verging on angry. It would’ve been helpful if Caine had put this particular card on the table during their earlier discussion. If she’d known Stinger thought she was a figment of Caine’s imagination, she’d have handled this encounter much differently.

“Where is he? I have a few things to say to him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jupiter agrees, reflecting his frown. “He’s out right now. You could stop by in the morning and –”

A rapid-fire knock at the door makes Jupiter jump. Sig trots over to sniff interestedly at the threshold. Jupiter glances at Stinger, and he points to the door. “Aren’t you going to answer?”

It would be a dead giveaway that she doesn’t belong here, if she didn’t. Standing and tugging down the hem of her blue t-shirt, she goes to see who it is.

Kalique Abrasax is waiting on the top step. As soon as she sees Jupiter, her face lights up. “Caine said you weren’t feeling well, but look at you, the very picture of health! Come on, no excuses now, you’re coming to my place.”

“I can’t, I’ve got a guest –”

“Detective Apini, you’re hiding here as well? For shame! The two of you are having a party of your own, and you threw Caine to the wolves at my place,” Kalique says perkily, glimpsing him over Jupiter’s shoulder. Stinger grimaces and ducks his head, as if he wants to tuck and roll into the shadows under the couch. “You ought to rescue him, he’s been cornered and forced into small talk. It’s a social bloodbath. Come now, both of you, there’s plenty to eat and drink. Let’s go.”

“I’m not dressed for a –”

“You’ll borrow something from me, remember?” She snags Jupiter’s elbow, pulling her down the stairs. “Come along, Captain Apini! This is a mandatory residency board meeting, no excuses!”

Jupiter digs in her heels, because short of screaming and causing a scene, Kalique isn’t going to let her go. It’s obvious this was her plan since they met in the grocery store this morning, pulling Caine downstairs first and then fishing for Jupiter alone, dividing and conquering.

“Is your brother at dinner tonight?” Jupiter asks, firmly rooted to the floor.

“Balem is always at dinner,” Kalique sighs. “You’d think he doesn’t have his own live-in chef, as often as he ends up mooching food at my place.”

“Caine said something about another brother, too. Titus?”

“Goodness, no! My dinners are far too tame for Titus, he’s probably at a nightclub somewhere, putting god-knows-what up his nose and god-knows-what on his dick.”

Laughing in surprise and relief, Jupiter lets Kalique herd her into the elevator. The other woman’s hands are insistent on her arm, probing at her skin like a butcher might size up a cut of meat.

“I have to confess, Jupiter, I’m put out that Caine has kept you all to himself for so long. How a brute like him managed to snag someone as lovely as you, I’ll never know. He’s married above himself, that’s certain.”

Irritation needles down Jupiter’s spine, and she shakes her head. “He’s not a brute. I’m the lucky one.”

“I doubt that, you seem just perfect.” Jupiter has the distinct impression that Kalique has decided she’s a bauble, something shiny and exciting to be examined and dissected. Kalique reaches up and twirls Jupiter’s ponytail into a bun. “Don’t worry about your ratty clothes, I’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy. I’ve got a beautiful Calvin Klein that will fit perfectly.”

“My jeans are really fine,” Jupiter says, gesturing to her outfit.

“You look like a janitor,” Kalique retorts brusquely. “It won’t do at my party.”

The comment hits so close to home, Jupiter’s face goes cold and her teeth click shut.


	6. Chapter 6

Kalique’s apartment occupies the entire twenty-seventh floor. It’s a designer’s dream, all bright colors and elegant furniture, everything built to resemble a Moroccan riad. There’s a live band playing near the wet bar, a bartender in uniform dispensing drinks, and half a dozen waiters walking the room with trays full of hors d'oeuvres. This isn’t an intimate dinner, it’s a full-fledged soiree, with at least a hundred guests.

When the two of them glide into the party, Kalique immediately tows Jupiter down a side hallway, into a massive bedroom. Her closet is bigger than Caine’s entire apartment, stuffed to bursting with designer clothes.

Kalique gets to work on Jupiter, and Jupiter keeps her mouth closed and goes along, because she’s still reeling from the janitor comment. Kalique doesn’t know that Jupiter is Katharine Dunlevy's maid – surely she’d have said so outright. But the comment was accurate enough to make Jupiter feel flustered and vulnerable. She allows herself to be squeezed into in a black strapless Calvin Klein cocktail dress and her hair primped into a twist, and then she’s dragged back out into the crowd.

The moment they enter the fray, Kalique begins introducing Jupiter to people, rapid-fire. She keeps touching Jupiter in a way that feels possessive and intrusive, until Jupiter shakes loose and grabs a rum and coke and a few mini-quiches, so she has something else to do with her hands. Kalique doesn’t mention the fact that Jupiter is Caine’s wife to anyone else, which seems like a small mercy – the less made of that, the better.

It’s strange, then, the deep sense of relief Jupiter feels when she spots Caine standing on the balcony. Her relief is tempered by the sight of Stinger next to him, the two men engaged in an intense conversation, gesticulating in a way that might devolve into a fistfight at any moment.

Kalique puts her hands on Jupiter’s shoulders, massaging gently. “Darling, come this way, you must meet my brother Balem.”

“I see Caine out on the balcony, I should say hello,” Jupiter replies.

"In a minute. Balem has been inquiring after you, and I promised we'd all chat." She tows Jupiter past the balcony door, and when Jupiter pulls her attention away from Caine she finds herself standing in front of The Lizard Lestat. 

"Ms Jones, what an unexpected pleasure," he rasps, clearly not pleased at all. He seems to be caught between loathing and fascination.  What the hell is this guy's deal?

"Hello again," Jupiter replies, pulling her lips back into something she hopes resembles a smile. Balem is wearing a strange black turtleneck, with gold piping along the collar, and half the fabric over his chest missing. Where does someone even buy something like that? Did he have it custom-made? His nipples are dusted with glitter; it takes all of Jupiter's willpower not to stare. He glares at her, and she holds her empty glass up in front of her stomach with both hands, like a shield. "So, this is a great party." 

"I've been saving a bottle of Dom, I'm going to have Maledictus open it for us," Kalique says, squeezing her elbow. She shoots a look at her brother. "I'll be right back. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Balem acknowledges Kalique with a flick of his hand, like shooing an insect. "Tell me, Ms Jones, do you find your apartment to your liking?"

"It's great," she replies truthfully. "Caine's so lucky - we're both lucky, I mean."

"Did you know the woman who lived there before?"

She shakes her head, lifting her mouth into an apologetic grimace. 

"You're certain?" As he speaks he gets more agitated, his eyes widening and spittle spraying across his bottom lip. "I believe you knew her quite well. If you think a pantomime of ignorance will throw me off, I assure you it will not. You have no secrets from me - I know what you're doing!"

Jupiter takes a step back, her mouth open. A gaggle of nearby partygoers stop talking and turn to stare. 

Holy shit, this man is certifiable. 

Kalique practically flies from across the room, a glass of champagne in each had. "Balem, darling, you're upsetting my guests. Remember your breathing exercises, to help with your nerves?" she purrs, handing him a drink. Balem hasn't taken his eyes off Jupiter. 

Face twisted in suppressed irritation at her brother, Kalique extends the second glass to her, a bubbly apology. "My brother has been feeling out of sorts for the last few months, you must forgive him."

 _Must?_ Hardly. The only thing Jupiter _must_ do is get the hell out of here. "I should find Caine."

Jupiter makes a dash for the balcony. She's too creeped out to worry about interrupting Caine and Stinger's conversation; she barrels right out the door in her rush to safety.

“Kalique found me out and dragged me down to the party,” Jupiter says apologetically, reaching out to link her elbow around Caine's without thinking. The closer she stands to him, the slower her heart beats and the calmer her nerves. “Nice to see you again, Stinger.”

“Drop the wife act. Caine fessed up,” Stinger says, rolling his eyes. “The two of you have an avalanche of legal consequences about to drop on your heads. I’ve never seen Caine do something so wildly irresponsible and stupid.”

“That’s because you weren’t in Panama,” Caine mutters under his breath.

“Don’t you dare put that on me right now. Don’t you _bloody_ dare,” Stinger snaps, shoving a finger in his face. “I ought to haul you both down to the INS offices this second. The fact that you’ve got Kiza wrapped up in this mess is inexcusable.”

With their tones of voice and postures, the two men sound like old lovers in a spat.

Delicately, as if she’s commenting on the decor, Jupiter says, “Technically Kiza is the one who wrapped us up in this mess. She introduced us and served as our legal witness. We wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for her.”

Caine stops breathing. Stinger opens his mouth a few times, no sound coming out.

“Caine and I need each other, Stinger.” Jupiter lets go of Caine and steps toward him. “We’ve got the INS situation under control, we’re going to handle the interviews just fine.”

Stinger leans back, crossing his arms and huffing out a sigh. “The instant this comes back on Kiza, I will throw you both under the bus in a goddamn heartbeat. I’ll see you both jailed and deported, before I let anything happen to my daughter.”

“Understood,” Caine replies. Jupiter nods.

Stinger glowers at the two of them. “This conversation isn’t over, but I need to be a hell of a lot drunker to finish it. I want plausible deniability if I get called up to testify. Excuse me, I’m going to make friends with a bottle of scotch.” With that, he leaves the balcony.

Caine grabs the railing with both hands, turning to stare at the city lights. Jupiter stands beside him, leaning onto her elbows. “I gather that could have gone better?”

“It wasn’t ideal,” he says.

“Is he going to turn us in?”

“I don’t think so.” Caine pauses, cutting his eyes over to her. “Where did you get the dress?”

Glancing at her black gown, she replies, “Kalique played dress-up. Do you like it?”

“Sure.” He clears his throat, carefully keeping his gaze on the building across the street. She glances at herself again, and it occurs to her how low the neckline is, how fantastic it makes her breasts look.

Judging by the pink in his cheeks, Caine noticed too.

“Kalique seems … peculiar,” she says. "And her brother Balem is a piece of work. He just yelled at me, and said he knew what I was up to."

"He yelled at you?" Caine turns toward the apartment, frowning as he scans the crowd inside. He's trying to contain his indignation, like he's restraining himself from marching off to defend her; it's simultaneously startling and sexy. 

"There's only one thing I'm up to. You don't think he knows about our marriage, do you?" she asks.

"No, I showed them the certificate, everything's legal as far as the building's residency board's concerned. Balem wanted the rooftop apartment bulldozed. He's probably just trying to frighten you, so we'll move out." He shakes his head. "The Abrasaxes are all eccentric, I don’t think they know how to behave like regular people.”

“Eccentric is rich-people code for ‘crazy.’” Jupiter rattles the ice in her glass. “I want another drink. Join me?”

The party isn’t half bad, as long as Jupiter sticks with Caine. Kalique seems stymied on how to separate them, and after a few dogged attempts she eventually focuses on other guests. Several times Jupiter catches Balem staring from across the room, unabashed, studying her like she’s a specimen in a petri dish. She avoids eye contact and focuses on Caine instead.

If Balem does suspect Jupiter's marriage is an act, then she's going to spend the night hanging on Caine's arm and canoodling like a newlywed to convince him otherwise. Every time Balem's attention shifts onto them, Jupiter practically crawls into Caine's lap. She throws her arms around him and leans her head against his chest or shoulder, she strokes the back of his neck and gazes at him adoringly. The first time it happens, Caine stiffens in confusion, like a neglected animal balking at a stranger's touch.

"Balem," she mutters under her breath, without moving her mouth. Caine's gaze cuts over to the eldest Abrasax, glowering at the two of them from beside the bar. With a grunt of comprehension, Caine drops a hand down to rest against the small of her back. The contact is warm and reassuring. Eventually he relaxes enough to mimic a few of her intimate gestures, arm around her shoulders and cheek touching hers as he leans down to speak in her ear. 

The two of them eat and drink and talk, mostly avoiding the other partygoers, and the evening feels like an all-expenses-paid date. A little over an hour later, Caine offers to refill her rum and coke. As soon as he leaves, Stinger seizes the opportunity to corner her against a potted tree. He looks bleary; he’s obviously deep into his plausible-deniability campaign.

“Do you realize what you’ve gotten yourself tangled up with?” he asks.

Jupiter shrugs. “We discussed this on the balcony, remember? Prison, deportation, getting thrown under a bus. Got it.”

“No, I mean Caine.” Stinger leans forward, his face full of earnest concern, like he’s decided Jupiter needs looking after. “He’s never had real family. The closest he ever got was our unit in the Pathfinders. All of us had a life outside the service, parents and spouses and children, but he didn’t. Caine’s a perfect soldier, he always intended to live and die for Uncle Sam, however long he survived the fieldwork.”

Stinger pauses, swaying as he peers into his empty glass. “Where did my whiskey go?”

“It’s in your liver,” Jupiter replies.

“Right! And you know what else? Most people with Caine’s background are psychologically incapable of devoting themselves to anything. Caine’s such a contrary pain in the ass, he went the opposite way – once he commits to something, he honors that commitment until the day he dies. The military was his first love, and he swore an oath of loyalty to the US government. Then the government tossed him out on his ass, like a bitter ex-wife.”

Stinger hiccups, shaking his head in pity. “Do you know what a marriage contract is, Jupiter? It’s another goddamn oath. That boy doesn’t know how to do anything by halves, and he’s loyal to a fault, and you signed him up for a lifelong commitment.”

“It’s only for a few months, until we can get divorced.” Jupiter eases further into the potted plant, as though she can hide in the waxy green leaves.

Stinger snorts in laughter. “You keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night. Or maybe the INS will dissolve your sham marriage, put you on a boat to the bloody USSR, and have Caine up on criminal charges again. Wouldn’t that be fan-fucking-tastic. I called in all my favors to pull him out of that shitstorm in Panama, so he didn’t get life in prison. I’ve got no more favors to give.” He frowns at his glass again. “Who the hell stole my whiskey?”

Caine reappears with Jupiter’s rum and coke. He takes one look at Stinger and hands her the drink.

“He’s had the better part of a bottle, judging by the shade of red in his face,” Caine says, like a doctor diagnosing a patient. “Has he started up with his proud dad routine, going on and on about Kiza?”

“He’s definitely been going on, but not about Kiza,” Jupiter replies.

“We should get him home before he climbs on top of Kalique’s piano and treats us to his impersonation of Michelle Pfeiffer in  _The Fabulous Baker Boys_.”

“My version of ‘Making Whoopee’ is universally acclaimed,” Stinger objects, waving a dismissive hand in Caine’s face.

“Yeah, and universal acclaim is why we got banned from those bars in Cairo and Guadalajara. Let's go, Captain.” Caine grabs Stinger’s arm and pulls it over his shoulder, to steady him. He glances at Jupiter. “Did you want to stay?”

“I’ll come,” Jupiter replies. “We should go home too.”

Caine’s momentum falters, and he stares at the floor before winding back up into action. “Get the door, please?”

Jupiter does as he asks, so Caine can ease Stinger into the hallway and toward the elevator. “If you want to wait, I’ll drop him off and come back,” he says.

Right – avoiding Titus, taking the service stairs. “I’ll risk it, this once,” Jupiter replies.

They’re on the way down before she realizes what gave Caine pause in Kalique’s place: she called his apartment “home” without even thinking about it.

She downs her rum and coke in one long chug, grateful that Stinger is positioned between her and Caine. Their time together has felt so natural, she hasn’t minded the periods of silence that have settled over them so far. But now, in the quiet elevator, she feels flustered. The information Stinger dumped in her lap sits heavy; she has no idea how to process it yet.

“Was all Kalique’s talk about a residency board meeting at the party just a lure?” she asks, to fill the silence.

“When I got there, Balem told me that another corporation is trying to execute a hostile takeover of Abrasax Incorporated’s property holdings, including this building. The Aegis Group, I think? He wanted to make sure we reported anyone unknown in the building. The Aegis Group is sending spies to scout the property.”

“That’s bad?”

“They’d probably evict Balem and Kalique. They could change the cut-rate deal Stinger and I get on rent, to force us out.”

Stinger, half-asleep where he’s hanging from Caine’s neck, perks up. “Aegis, aye, had them ’round for tea a few weeks ago. Nice ladies, Dio-something Tsing and Gemma Whatsherdoodle.”

Caine glances at Jupiter and then draws back, trying to get enough distance to look at Stinger’s face. “You’ve been talking with the Aegis Group?”

“Gave‘m a tour, showed’m what’s what. Good people,” Stinger mumbles, losing focus again. “The building should be in good hands, when m’investigation’s finished.”

“Investigation?” Jupiter echoes. “What investigation?”

“M’a police detective, I investigate things,” Stinger slurs, blinking slowly. “S’my job.”

“We won't get anything else out of him tonight,” Caine sighs. The elevator doors open at the basement level, and they deposit Stinger in his apartment. Caine drops him into bed, then leaves a glass of water on the nightstand and an empty trash bin beside him. 

“We should take the stairs,” Jupiter says, gazing longingly at the elevator.

Caine holds open the stairwell door. “After you.”

On the third floor, she pauses to take off her heels. On the eighth, she stops to catch her breath. By the time they hit the tenth floor, rum and coke is thumping in her temples, and she wants to spread out on the concrete and go to sleep.

Easing down in her tight dress to sit on the tenth floor landing, Jupiter leans into the cinderblock wall and moans. “No building should be this tall. Why doesn’t the universe put me in charge, so I can issue a decree that every building could only be four stories? Then humanity wouldn’t have to suffer like this.”

Caine hovers a few steps down, hands crammed into his pockets as he studies her, like he's trying to decide how dire the situation really is. “Or your majesty could just wish for wings.”

“Excellent suggestion,” Jupiter says, closing her eyes. “Fetch me those wings now.”

“This might make it easier,” he says. Leaning down, he slides one arm around her back and the other under her knees, lifting her off the ground as if she hardly weighs anything. Jupiter squeaks in surprise, digging the fingernails of one hand into the back of his neck as she scrabbles for purchase.

He draws a sharp breath, and she uncurls her fingers. Stroking the red scratches on his neck to soothe them, she flattens her hand along his shoulder. “Sorry.”

With a nod, Caine starts climbing.

It’s awkward for the first flight, Jupiter hardly knowing where to look or what to do with her spare hand, the one holding Kalique’s Jourdan slingbacks. She settles for dangling the shoes beside her hip. He stays studiously focused on the stairs in front of him. She has ample time to survey his profile: his oddly curved ear, the precise edges of his beard, the straight contour of his nose, and the heavy line of his brow.

Once they hit the twelfth floor, she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. He’s getting increasingly winded but trying to hide it, which is adorably entertaining. His arms don’t quiver in the slightest, though. Each step rocks her back and forth, and his fingers are warm where they wrap around her ribs and her knee. He smells a little like cigarettes, secondhand from Kalique’s party, along with a lingering hint of aftershave and a slight musk of sweat.

She ought to be mindful of the information Stinger unloaded on her earlier, but she’s tipsy and comfortable, and Caine is so lovely. She’d like to rest her head on his shoulder and breathe him in, but he’s holding her up too high and the logistics aren’t quite right.

Jupiter’s never been more disappointed to reach her destination.

Bumping open the stairwell door with his hip, he eases her through sideways and strolls across the twenty-eighth floor lobby to the roof access stairs. She keeps waiting for him to put her down, but he takes her all the way to his apartment door.

“Doorknob?” he says, puffing for air. Jupiter reaches out, slingbacks dangling from her index finger, and twists it open.

Caine carries her across the threshold, into the living room, and lowers her onto the couch. Sig greets them both, tail wagging and tongue hanging out.

Jupiter could make another newlywed crack about brides and thresholds, but she holds her tongue and watches Caine go into the kitchen to get two glasses of water. He brings one back for her.

“Thank you,” she says as he deposits it into her hands.

He nods again, lips pressing into a small smile. “Sig, come.” Sig jumps onto the couch next to Jupiter and puts his head in her lap. Caine frowns. “Sig, I said come.”

Sig stares at him, not moving, doggy eyebrows lifted like a challenge.

“I don’t mind,” Jupiter says, scratching behind his ear. “Sig can stay with me, if he wants.”

Caine opens his mouth again, like he’s about to object. He glances at the dog, then Jupiter, a strange expression on his face, something like disappointment. Without a word, he leaves the two of them on the couch together. His bedroom door closes.

“Let’s go, Sig,” Jupiter says, standing up. Changing out of her tight dress, she spreads it flat on the coffee table so it won’t wrinkle before she returns it to Kalique tomorrow. She pulls on little pajama shorts and a t-shirt, then digs around in her duffel bag for an astronomy book. “There’s no way I’m getting to sleep anytime soon. I’ll show you how the telescope works.”

Barefoot, she pads past the quiet beehives and to the observatory. The dog follows at her heel. She wobbles up to the top of the wooden ladder and pries open the portal on top of the copper structure; it opens with a squeal, on long-neglected hinges. Then she closes the observatory door, and everything is doused in darkness. After half an hour of fiddling, she gets the telescope aligned properly, but the light pollution in Manhattan means only the brightest objects are visible.

“Sig, I want you to know that I’m not a vain person,” Jupiter says, angling the telescope and placing her eye against the lens, twirling a dial to adjust it. “This just happens to be a good time of year to view Jupiter – the planet, not the woman. If you’re feeling left out, we can look at Sirius next. They call that one the Dog Star.”

“Did you draft my dog into astronomy lessons?”

Jupiter twitches in surprise at Caine’s voice, knocking the telescope out of alignment. “Dammit.”

“Can I come in?”

“You might as well,” she says, covering her eyes when he opens the door, to preserve her night vision. Then she sets about re-aligning the lens. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I’m used to having Sig in the room,” he says, sounding embarrassed. He’s wearing striped pajama pants and a black t-shirt. He really doesn’t own any other color, and every single one seems a size too small, plastered to the contours of his chest. As far as fashion quirks go, he could’ve chosen worse. “What are you looking at?”

“A naked man in the skyscraper on 95th Street,” she replies, deadpan.

Caine tilts his head, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he replies dryly, “Oh good. I was worried your majesty might be doing something vain, like admiring her own planet.”

Jupiter smirks. “Sig, does your owner always stand outside doors and snoop on your private conversations?” The dog sticks his tongue out and pants in reply. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s my responsibility to make sure Sig doesn’t hang out with the wrong sort of people. Wouldn’t want him picking up bad habits, like how to be a peeping tom,” Caine retorts. 

“Have a look.” Jupiter steps back, and he leans down and place his eye against the lens.

“Wow,” he sighs in awe. “It’s really Jupiter – orange swirls and everything. Are those little dots the moons?”

“Yep. Two of them, anyway. There’s sixty more you can’t see.”

“It feels so close.”

“Only about 400 million miles.” Jupiter picks up the astronomy book and extends it toward him. “I’m glad you’re still up, because I meant to give this to you earlier. It’ll help you with the telescope, after I leave.”

He straightens and takes the book, thumbing through a few pages. “Um. Thanks.”

“I brought it to say thank you for the restaurant last Sunday. It was – god, it was so embarrassing. I’m sorry you even saw what happened.” She sucks her bottom lip. “But I’m glad you were there.”

He ducks his head and clears his throat. “If it makes you feel better, that was a high point in my food service career. I quit that night.”

“Oh – oh no, I hope it wasn’t because of –”

“No. It wasn’t.” He shifts from one foot to another. Jupiter can’t see Caine having a career waiting tables, anyway. He’s got a sober competence about him, the sort that flourishes in extreme crises. She can imagine him as one of those officers in a war movie, throwing himself out of airplanes, confidently barking orders to soldiers during a battle, and full of quiet stoicism in the face of certain death. Even here in the civilian world he wears his combat boots all the time, like he’s perpetually ready to fall back into that old life.

He probably looked amazing in fatigues, too.

“Do you want to see Sirius?” Jupiter leans down, adjusting the telescope.

After stargazing for a while, they end up on the patio. “You need chairs out here,” Jupiter says, spreading out the blanket they used for lunch. The city sounds loud, after the relative quiet inside the observatory – car horns and alarms in the distance, and the incessant low hum of traffic.

“I don’t have anything of my own to put in the apartment,” he says, dropping onto the blanket and staring up at the sky, just like he did earlier in the afternoon. “The woman who lived here before me left everything behind.”

That explains the flower-patterned furniture and the formal china. It doesn't explain Balem's temper-tantrum at the party.

Jupiter rolls down onto her back beside Caine. “Who was she? What happened to her?”

“Ms Seraphi, apparently. I don’t know anything else about her. She was killed.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. Do they know who did it?” How strange it must be, stepping into someone else’s life, living in the detritus she left behind. 

“The case is still open.” Caine puts his hands behind his head. “During the interview on Wednesday, you said your dad was an astronomer. Was that true?”

“Yeah. He’s the one who chose my name – big shock, right? He and my mom were both professors at the university in St Petersburg. I never met him, but my Aunt Nino has told me so much about him, I almost feel like I did.” She smiles at the sky. “He and Nino used to argue all the time – she’s crazy about astrology, and he said it was bullshit. But he was obsessed with the stars.  He thought the sky was full of miracles.”

It’s cooler on the open roof than it was inside the observatory, and Jupiter shivers. Without a word Caine hops up and disappears into the apartment, emerging a second later with a quilt. He drapes it over her and settles down again.

“We'll share,” she says, leaning over to spread the blanket across his lap.

“It’s fine, I’m not –”

“It’s cold,” Jupiter insists, scooting next to him so the blanket covers them both. She eases close enough to rest her shoulder and upper arm against his. He radiates warmth like a space heater. Sig happily settles between their legs, snuggling in. “Which side of the bed do you prefer?”

“Um. The right?” Caine sounds like he’s asking permission.

“I’ll take the left, then,” she says. “And do you snore?”

“So my squad members told me,” he says, scratching his beard, eyes firmly fixed upward.

“Oh no, not buzzsaw snoring, right? More like the cute, soft snores?”

He chuckles. “I have no idea. They never said.”

She angles her head toward him. His voice is low and soothing, she could fall asleep listening to it. It’d be even nicer, to press her ear to his chest and feel his words rumble. “We’ll say it’s the cute kind of snoring, then. What about cuddling? Do we spoon?”

“I don’t think the INS will ask us that,” he says, the tiniest bit strained.

“We have to be prepared with an answer for everything,” Jupiter replies. “I prefer to be the big spoon.”

His eyebrows pull down, like they do when he’s pondering. “In that case, we definitely cuddle.”

Jupiter angles her head more, until it rests against his shoulder. She was so comfortable in his arms when he carried her up the stairs. The sleepy part of her wants to roll right on top of him and snuggle in for the night; the reasonable part of her recognizes that’s not a great idea.

“Do you sleep in pajamas, like you’re wearing right now?” she asks.

He softly clears his throat. “Only the bottoms. You?”

“Just a t-shirt. Comfy ones, like this. Obviously I steal yours all the time.” She reaches over to pinch his black shirt between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you think they’ll want to know when we first had sex?”

His eyes flick toward her, and he swallows. “I don’t know. But we ought to be prepared, like you said. First date?”

“No way,” she replies. “You made me work for it. Fourth date, at least. You surprised me with flowers – daffodils are my favorite – and we got coffee and went to a terrible movie. It was so bad, we left the theater halfway through, and we came back to your place to watch something else. You put on  _Dead Poet’s Society_. I kissed you during the ‘Oh Captain My Captain’ scene, and things went along from there.” She pauses. “I was wearing cute red lingerie, too. In case they ask.”

“Do you always wear that sort of thing, or did you put it on that day because you planned to lure me back to my apartment and take advantage of me?” Caine says, his voice thick.

“It was part of my big seduction plan. You were putty in my hands. You cried.”

“Whoa, hold on, I definitely don’t cry during sex. I will submit a signed affidavit to the INS testifying to that fact.”

She giggles sleepily. “Okay fine, you didn’t cry during sex, but you told me you loved me afterward.”

“I said it first?” he asks, placated.

“You don’t strike me as the gushing, emotive type. I must’ve said it first, and then you said it too. You were sexy and nervous, but you said it without crying.”

“Thank you.”

“Am I the first person you ever fell in love with?”

He pauses before answering, his breathing slow. “I suppose you are.”

“I haven’t ever been in love before, either. That’ll be a great story to tell our grandkids,” Jupiter says with a yawn. She should’ve gone to bed an hour ago. “Ours was a whirlwind romance, I proposed a week after  _Dead Poet’s Society_. You’d been planning to do it, but I worked up the nerve first.”

“Maybe I thought you were out of my league.”

“Good thing I’m the proactive type, isn’t it?"

"I like the proactive type," Caine says quietly. "But I didn't realize it until I met you." 

"I spent a lifetime falling for Mr Wrong, because I never knew how much I needed someone so loyal and responsible, to keep me out of trouble. Thank goodness you came along. We were obviously meant for each other,” she hums, closing her eyes. The patio is uncomfortable and she’d rather fall asleep on the couch, but she wants to stay here and listen to Caine’s voice. “Even the INS will see we were destined to be together.”

“You believe in that? Destiny?”

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I’m so tired.”

Caine stands up, piling the quilt atop her; Sig’s collar jingles as he follows to his feet. “Let’s go inside.”

Jupiter opens her eyes and starts to stir, intending to protest, but he scoops her up in a ball of blankets, carrying her into the living room and depositing her on the sofa.

“Good night, Jupiter.”

“’Night.” She watches him through heavy lids as he turns off the light and leaves the room, Sig trotting along after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The astronomy in this chapter is entirely unrealistic - the wrong planets and stars in the wrong hemisphere at the wrong time of year. Usually I'm a stickler for that sort of detail, but I did it for the otp.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Jupiter produces a Polaroid camera from her duffel bag. They take Sig to the park, and she shoves the camera into several strangers’ hands, asking them to take pictures of her and Caine together.

At first he finds it wildly disconcerting, like last night at the party - every time someone aims the camera at them, Jupiter wraps herself around him and beams. Physical affection seems to come so easily to her, something to be given freely and lightly. And sure, Caine enjoys the idea of cuddling with a stunningly beautiful woman as much as anyone would, but all this touching is wreaking havoc on his attempts to squelch the sparks of his infatuation. 

After the second photo develops, image gradually emerging on the white plastic negative, she waves it in his face accusingly. There’s no denying the fact that he looks like a mortified gargoyle.

“Listen, you’ve got to sell this. We’re going to bring pictures to our appointment tomorrow. The INS has to believe we’re in love, so at least pretend like you don’t hate being next to me.”

“I promise, I don’t hate being next to you,” he replies, throat tight as he takes the photo from her hand and slips it into his pocket, out of sight. Sparks of infatuation? Who is he kidding. This infatuation is a goddamn forest fire.

“You don’t have to convince me. You have to convince the US government,” she says, turning the camera on him. “Now relax and smile.”

Caine does as he’s told. He forces himself to relax. He doesn’t let himself think about how much self-control it took to leave Jupiter on the couch last night. He definitely doesn’t think about how he locked his bedroom door and choked out her name in the dark with his hand around his cock, or how afterward still wanted to crawl to the living room and beg her to come to bed, even if she only allowed him to lie in her lap like Sig. He doesn’t look at the ring he put on her finger, because when he does the ground quivers under his feet.

For now Caine relaxes, and he doesn’t think, and he doesn’t look, and he lets himself get swept along in the hurricane that is Jupiter Jones.

The two of them hug and smile and behave like head-over-heels newlyweds. She clings to him and plants kisses on his cheek, nuzzles into his beard, and the flash pops. He holds the camera in one outstretched arm and they dance, whirling around on the grass like a bride and groom at a wedding reception. She sits in his lap and nibbles his earlobe, then she hops on his back and laughs in delight as he sprints up a hill. He rests his lips against her neck and she leans into him, and every time one of them pushes the shutter the camera spits out another photo.

Several dozen automatically develop and get tucked away into her purse, pictures of Caine looking captivated while Jupiter fawns over him. Taken together, the photos are a time-lapse of a man in awe of his fortune, besotted and overwhelmed by the woman standing next to him.

“These are really great. They look so believable. You smiled so much, are you sure you didn’t strain something?” Jupiter says, flipping through the collection at the end of the morning. They’re sitting together in the grass under a tree, Sig on one side of her and Caine on the other.

Her hair isn’t up in a ponytail today, it fans down her back in loose waves. While they were taking pictures and he had permission to touch her as much as he wanted, he’d indulged the urge to run his fingers through it as she leaned against his shoulder.  Her hair was heavy and silky, and smelled like orange-blossom shampoo. He wants to bury his face in it, to nose his way to her neck and kiss the warm spot under her ear. But Jupiter has put the camera away, and the photo session is over.  Caine presses his thumbnail into his index finger, and he crushes the urge to reach for her again. 

She elbows him in the ribs. “Did anybody ever tell you, happy is a good look on you?”

“No,” he says.

“Well, it is.”

She beams at him, and blood warms his face for the thousandth time this morning. He hasn’t stopped blushing since the first time she kissed his cheek. He feels as giddy as a boy with a crush, all hormones and longing and tenuous self-control. He’s never felt like this before, not even when he was actually a teenager. “Um, thanks?”

Carefully stacking the photos, she puts them back into her bag. “You’ve got something right here,” she says, gesturing toward her own face.

He swipes at his cheek.

“No, it’s – here,” she reaches out, rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone. “It’s long-wear lipstick, we’re going to need a wet washcloth.”

Back in the Abrasax Building, they’re only on the fifth flight of the service stairs when Jupiter starts sagging against Caine in mock exhaustion, making awkward jokes about being carried the rest of the way to the roof. He likes it when she says gawky things. It makes him feel less self-conscious about his own social faux-pas – like Jupiter wouldn’t ever judge him for bumbling and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“All right, I’ll carry you, if it’ll shut your majesty up,” he agrees cheerfully, bundling her into his arms. She squeaks in surprise, just like last night, but doesn’t leave claw marks on his neck again.

Pity.

Being carried doesn’t actually shut her up – she keeps talking, swinging Sig’s leash in her free hand as she goes on about how she’s never had a pet, how lucky Caine is. The fact that Sig likes Jupiter so much, and she adores him, is only fuel poured onto Caine’s infatuation. The dog is practically part of who Caine is, and Jupiter seems ready to adopt Sig and take him home forever.

Last night on the patio, Jupiter laid next to him and painted a picture of marriage – shared clothes, shared bed, shared life. It’s everything domestic he never had, growing up; everything he convinced himself he’d never want. Now that Jupiter’s here, the prospect makes him dizzy with longing.

What if he’s been lying to himself, his entire life?

Caine’s self-control develops a fatal fault midway through the eighth flight. He stalls out completely on the ninth landing, shuffling to a stop.

“Are you okay?” Jupiter says.

“No,” he admits, leaning closer, his nose brushing her chin. “Not exactly.”

She gazes at him, her huge hazel eyes full of something that resembles hope. “You can put me down, if you want.”

“I don’t want to put you down,” he murmurs, angling his head so their faces are aligned.

Jupiter’s tongue touches her bottom lip, her teeth dragging after. “Well then, what do you want?”

There’s so much, where does he even start?

“When we were in City Hall  –”

The stairwell door bangs opens and two dark-haired middle-aged women appear, chatting with each other. At the sight of Jupiter and Caine, they instantly fall silent, and one of them gasps.

Jupiter flails like she’s been electrocuted, wiggling out of Caine’s arms so suddenly that he almost drops her down the stairs. She tosses her purse and Sig’s leash and crams her hands behind her back, twisting and pulling at her tight wedding band, struggling to pry it off her finger.

The one with straight hair says something in Russian – a question, judging by the lilt of the last syllable. The curly-haired woman scoops up Jupiter’s purse like she has every right to touch it. Jupiter looks petrified enough to bolt through the nearest concrete wall, leaving a human-shaped outline behind her, like a Looney Tunes character.

Caine warily leans down for Sig’s leash.

“Mama, what are you doing here?” she says, and Caine is glad she didn’t run, because he's certain these two women would tear him to pieces if she left him behind. This is her _family_?

“You answer me first,” Aleksa replies, pointing accusingly at her daughter.

“This is – ah – this is my friend Caine Wise,” Jupiter says, bringing her hands out to gesture at him, because she finally got her ring off and crammed it into the back pocket of her jeans. The knuckle on her finger is red and swollen where she forced it over. “Caine, this is my mother Aleksa Jones, and my aunt, Nino Bolotnikov.”

Hands on her hips, Aleksa takes her time scrutinizing Caine, from the wedding band on his left hand to the kiss-marks covering his cheeks. She makes him feel like a creature in a zoo exhibit. He instinctively goes into a parade rest stance, like he would in front of a superior officer.

“Your _friend_ Caine, who carries you in his arms and wears your lipstick all over his face?” she says, words sharp and fast as machine-gun fire. “You are always a terrible liar, Jupiter. This is the British boy you went on a date with last Sunday? I raised you better than this – spending the weekend with a married man! No wonder you are hiding and sneaking around!”

“Mama, he isn’t the British boy! He’s just a friend. I’m helping him with his telescope, and his observatory,” Jupiter says, plucking her purse away from Nino. “Nothing’s going on between us.”

“Is this why you lied about housesitting for Katharine Dunlevy? She was so surprised when we knocked on her door, looking for you. You’re hiding this affair!” Aleksa glares at Caine, and he shuffles back a half step. “Shame on you. Does your wife know what you’re up to?”

“What are you doing in the city?” Jupiter says, before Caine is forced to come up with an answer. She glances at Nino, a clear plea for help.

“I had errands to run, and we thought we’d stop by and say hello,” Nino replies, still openly appraising Caine. “I’d like to see your man-friend’s telescope, before we go.”

The way she says _telescope_ makes it sound like a euphemism. Caine retreats another half step. “The observatory’s on the roof, on floor twenty-eight.”

Jupiter shoots him a look, as if he’s just betrayed her. He shrugs, helpless.

“Yes, let’s see this telescope,” Aleksa says, grabbing Jupiter by the elbow and hauling her up the stairs.  “You are just like your father, foolish in your love for the stars, it makes you do terrible things. I won’t let you ruin your life, too. A _married man_ , Jupiter? How could you?!”

Nino wiggles her eyebrows at Caine, her face full of wry delight. “I didn’t realize I would see a show during this trip into Manhattan. This is better than Broadway.”

He falls in step beside her, Sig trotting behind the two of them. Aleksa and Jupiter only stop arguing when they run out of breath, after five more flights. Nino keeps smiling beatifically, glancing at him every few steps.

When they get to the rooftop apartment, Jupiter points at the sofa. “See Mama, look at the blankets. I’m sleeping on the couch. Nothing’s going on between us. Caine needs help fixing up his observatory, that’s all.”

Aleksa rounds on Caine. “Where is your wife, then? Why is she not here?”

“She’s in Chicago,” he replies automatically.

“What’s she doing in Chicago?” Aleksa asks. “Does she know you have another woman living with you for the weekend?”

“She’s – ahh she’s –”

“Mama, I’ll show you the observatory. Wait until you see the telescope, it’s just like Dad’s. You know, his brass one, from the Christmas picture? You won’t believe it.” Jupiter dumps her purse into Caine’s hands and grabs her mother, pulling her onto the patio.

Caine stares at Nino. “I’m going to – um –”

“You look like you got attacked by a mob of women. Did Jupiter leave so many lipstick marks, all by herself? Tsk, the energy of youth.” As if this is her apartment instead of Caine’s, Nino says, “You need a washcloth, I’ll fix you up. Come with me.”

Caine puts Jupiter’s purse on the kitchen table, and Nino runs the dishtowel under the faucet and passes it to him. He scrubs his face.

When he’s done, he realizes that Nino has caught sight of something inside the purse, barely visible through the open zipper. She adjusts her glasses and reaches in for one of the Polaroids.

It’s a shot of the two of them, a close-up of their faces. Jupiter’s laughing, her hand wrapped around the back of his neck, and he’s nuzzling under her ear.

Nino studies the picture, and lifts her gaze to Caine.

“That’s not what you think,” he says, throat tight with desperation. He simultaneously tries to snatch the purse away, but Nino is quicker. She has the stack of photos before he even moves.

In the top Polaroid, Jupiter’s lips are pressed to his cheek while he grins, gaze downcast. Like an animation flip-book, the next picture shows Jupiter with his earlobe caught between her teeth, and his nose scrunched up in delight. Next is Jupiter alone in profile, playing with her hair. Her left hand is clearly visible, wedding ring reflecting the morning light.

Nino sits heavily at the kitchen table. She glances out the window over the sink, toward the patio. Then she looks at Caine again.

“Your wife is not in Chicago,” Nino says.

“No,” he replies in defeat, because there’s no lie he can tell that will sound believable anymore.

“How long? How long have you been married?”

“A month.”

“Why is she keeping it a secret? Why will she not tell her family!”

The more truthful he is, the easier it will be to keep his story straight. “She’s trying to protect you.”

“Protect us from what? From you? Are you dangerous?”

“She isn’t protecting you from me,” Caine says. Avoiding the ‘dangerous’ question is an omission, not a lie. This conversation is beginning to feel like his court martial, meticulously choosing his words when answering the prosecutor. “Jupiter doesn’t want you to get hurt. We got married quickly, and she’s worried how that will affect you – all of you, her entire family.”

“You were married quickly? Why? You got her pregnant?” Nino demands, sharp and angry.

“No! No, she isn’t pregnant.” 

Nino’s face softens again. “That’s something, at least. But we aren’t just Jupiter’s family. We’re your family now, too. You’re a Bolotnikov.” She pats Caine’s hand. “Poor lamb, what have you gotten yourself into? I think by keeping everything secret, truly Jupiter intended to protect you from us.”

Caine’s brain gets hung up on the ‘we’re your family too’ bit, and doesn’t register anything after that. Since Kiza introduced him to Jupiter, he’s imagined her existing in a vacuum, a single quantity to be considered. Even when he promised to protect her family, it was an abstract concept, merely a topic of conversation to avoid with the INS. Caine has been willfully ignoring the reality that Jupiter’s a package deal, part of a closely-knit extended family that lives and works together.

Holy shit, he has in-laws. He has aunts and uncles and cousins.

The human blizzard in the observatory is his goddamn _mother-in-law_.

“Now you look worried, as you should be,” Nino says approvingly. “You hold onto that worry, because this news will give Aleksa a heart attack. Afterward, her spirit will come back and murder you.” Nino taps the Polaroid on the table. “I’ll kill you a second time, if you hurt Jupiter. She is like a daughter to me. There will be no running or hiding, Caine. I will track you and cut you down like a dog.”

Even with her soft curls and soft face, he can easily imagine Nino carving up a body and dropping it into the river. He’s stared into the eyes of a killer before. “Yes, ma’am.”

She purses her lips, gazing at the picture of Jupiter again. “She looks happy. Do you make her happy?”

“I want to,” he replies honestly. He’s too bewildered to lie anymore; he’s lost all capacity for nuance. He feels on the verge of his first ever panic attack.

“I have one question,” Nino says. “You must answer me truthfully, because your entire marriage is riding on this one thing.”

Caine tries to swallow, but the lump in his throat is too big.

“What’s your sign?”

“Pardon?”

“Your sign! Are you a Taurus? The minute I saw you, I said to myself, that boy looks like a Taurus.”

“Nino!” calls a voice from outside. Jupiter and Aleksa are walking back to the apartment.

Nino quickly stacks the pictures and places them in the purse. She leans forward and whispers, “Aleksa is my sister and my closest friend. I won’t hide this from her. Jupiter must tell her mother. But I will distract her for a few minutes, so you can talk with Jupiter first.”

She leaves the kitchen, and Caine hears the women chatting just outside the patio door.

Jupiter is going to be upset, and she’ll rightfully blame him for spilling the secret. She wanted to protect her family, and obviously she hid this marriage for that reason. He promised to help her; he failed.

He could run. He’s definitely faster than Aleksa and Nino. Jupiter might catch him, but he’s very motivated, he could outpace her for a while. Or he could hide – climb into a cabinet, maybe? Under the sink?

He’s too big to fit under the sink.

 _There will be no running or hiding. I will track you and cut you down like a dog,_ Nino’s voice whispers in his head. Caine’s throat is dry as a desert – he’s sweating, he’s dehydrated. He’s going to swallow his own tongue and choke.

“Nino says you needed to see me?” Jupiter says, coming into the kitchen.

“She knows,” he says, low and deep, almost a growl. “She found the Polaroids, she saw a picture of your ring.”

“Shit.”

Caine nods, both feet jiggling nervously against the floor.

“What did you tell her?” she asks.

“I told her you kept it secret to protect them, and I told her it wasn’t a shotgun wedding. You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

“God, no,” she hisses, eyes going wide. “Definitely not.”

“She thinks we’re really in love. She says you have to tell your mother.”

Jupiter sits down and buries her face in her hands. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

“Maybe we could look at this as practice, for our interviews on Monday,” Caine says, desperately clinging to the only semblance of predictability and order he can find. “We keep pretending, like we did at the park for the photos. We’ll put on a show for your family. When we get the divorce, you’ll tell them it didn’t work out.”

Jupiter drags her fingernails through her hair; she looks stricken. “She’s going to murder me.”

“That’s funny, Nino said your mother would murder _me_.”

“Aleksa Jones is not above double homicide,” Jupiter says, without a flicker of humor. She pulls the wedding band out of her pocket and crams it onto her finger. “Oh god. Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Caine balks, the blood draining from his face. “But you could … I mean, this is _your_ family, shouldn’t you just … by yourself? I'll wait here.”

“Get your ass out of that chair, Caine Wise. You married me, we’re doing this together,” Jupiter says, grabbing his hand on the way out of the kitchen.

Nino and Aleksa are hugging just outside the patio door. Jupiter tentatively says, “Mama?”

Aleksa turns around, angry tears in her eyes. She looks shellshocked. “Oh Jupiter, how could you?”

Jupiter stares at Nino, her grip on Caine tightening until he can’t feel his fingers.

“I knew she wouldn’t kill me, so I decided to be the messenger,” Nino says, steadying Aleksa by her shoulder.

Aleksa sniffles and reaches out to Jupiter, murmuring in Russian. Jupiter replies in the same language and falls into her mother’s arms. She’s still holding Caine’s hand, and he gets yanked along. Aleksa’s embrace widens to include him, and he stands stiffly beside her as she squeezes the breath from his chest.

Caine isn’t well-versed in hugs, but this embrace feels much too firm; it’s less like acceptance and more like contained fury. This is it – this is how he’s going to die – passive-aggressively suffocated by a middle-aged Russian woman.

The life that flashes in front of his eyes is brief and violent, and the only part that appears in color is the time he’s spent with Jupiter.

She sniffles against his side, where she’s smashed between him and Aleksa – oh god, Jupiter’s crying too. Everybody’s leaking all over the place, this is messier than a firefight with multiple gunshot injuries.

“Vassily is making American food for lunch, hamburgers on the grill,” Aleksa is saying, patting him on the back. “You will come eat.”

It isn’t a request, it’s an order.

From years of combat training and field experience, Caine knows that during a confrontation it’s essential to stand your ground. Never let the enemy capture and take you to a second location, away from the initial skirmish. The second location is where torture and execution inevitably happen.

Like looking to a superior officer for direction, he stares at Jupiter. He’s counting on her to make an excuse, so they can spend the rest of the day alone together here at his apartment, where it’s safe and secure.

Instead she kisses her mother on the cheek and says, “Of course we’ll come, Mama.”


	8. Chapter 8

Caine finds himself sitting in the backseat of a decade-old station wagon with BOLOTNIKOV CLEANING SERVICES emblazoned on the side, driving out to Brighton Beach. Jupiter’s still holding his hand, which is a bright spot in this otherwise catastrophic Sunday afternoon. They aren't wearing wedding rings, because even Aleksa and Nino agreed that springing Jupiter’s husband on the entire family is best done in stages. He’s her boyfriend today, and Jupiter will upgrade him over a series of visits in the next few weeks.

Long before they left the Abrasax Building, it occurred to him that the simplest thing would be to tell Aleksa and Nino the truth: this marriage was a business deal, and Jupiter was only after a green card. He suspects Aleksa would be less upset by that idea, strangely enough, although Nino would probably be angry.

If he told them, though, Jupiter would be disappointed in him. The delicate thing they’ve been building over the last few days would crumble, and Caine couldn’t bear that.

Vassily Bolotnikov’s house is a drab grey structure, virtually identical to the other mid-century homes in this suburban neighborhood. Inside is anything but drab; the space is chock full of activity, family members of all ages bustling around preparing the meal, like an elaborately choreographed dance.

When Aleksa and Nino lead them into the house, all that activity ceases and Caine becomes the center of attention for a short while. Everyone crowds around, jostling and shaking his hand. He’s never been so loudly or thoroughly welcomed in his life. There are introductions and outright astonishment at the idea of Jupiter having a boyfriend. With a longsuffering air, she rolls her eyes and offers sarcastic barbs in reply. This sort of mutual teasing obviously occurs regularly in the Bolotnikov family, with the casual intimacy of people whose lives afford them little privacy from each other.

Caine’s arm circles her protectively and he pulls her against his side. On instinct – an instinct he’s never had before, but he feels compelled to follow anyway – he touches his lips to her forehead in a gesture of comfort. Jupiter slides her arm around his waist and leans into him.

They stand like that in the foyer, chatting with Jupiter’s cousins Mikka and Vladie, until Aleksa comes to take Jupiter away. “We need to talk,” she says, her expression grim. Jupiter’s grip on Caine tightens briefly, fingernails digging into his hipbone before she lets go.

Caine watches her walk away, panic fluttering in his stomach. He suddenly feels the urge to find cover, hunker down in a defensible position in a corner of the room. Before Jupiter clears the door, he’s already calculated the optimal arrangement of coffee table and couch cushions to build a shield wall.

“Hey man, you want a beer?” Vladie says. “Let’s go sit out back. I have a great business opportunity, and you look like a smart guy who would be interested in earning some money.”

Vladie and Caine sit on aluminum folding chairs in the small backyard, and they drink. Vladie extolls the virtues of a pyramid scheme he's involved with, and tries to recruit Caine as an investor. Vassily stands sentry over the grill, flipping hamburgers and not-so-subtly questioning Caine about his willingness to work in the cleaning industry. Moltka, Jupiter’s ten-year-old cousin, keeps throwing Caine a football, and he tosses it back.

It eventually comes out that Caine was in the military. Suitably impressed, Moltka asks, “Did you shoot people?"

“I jumped out of airplanes,” Caine replies.

“Did you shoot any Russians?” Moltka says.

“One time a Russian shot me.”

“Bullshit,” Vladie says. “Prove it.”

Caine leans over to tug up the hem of his jeans. The entry-wound scar on one side of his calf is small and round; on the other, the exit wound is larger and more ragged.

Moltka’s big brown eyes shine in admiration and wonder. “Wicked!” He squats to poke the scar with a chubby finger, then squints up at him. “Why are you with Jupiter? You’re way cooler than she is.”

Vladie looks at Caine expectantly, as if he’s just been given a $1000 question on Jeopardy and there’s no correct answer. Even Vassily turns to stare, spatula in one hand, the grill billowing smoke behind him.

“The more you know about me, the more disappointed you’ll be,” Caine says flatly, rolling down his pant leg. “You probably think you know everything about your cousin, but trust me – there’s so much more. The difference is that all that stuff makes her cooler.”

As if on cue, Jupiter steps out the back door and surveys the group of men with their beer. There aren’t any empty chairs. Caine begins to stand, to offer her his seat, but she strides over and drops sideways into his lap. As though she uses him as furniture on a regular basis, she confidently throws an arm around his shoulders.

He curls one hand on her hip, the other on her knee, anchoring himself. The low-level panic he’s been feeling fades away, like fog evaporates in sunlight.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “You good?”

He nods a fraction. “Everything okay with your mother?”

“Mmm,” she replies noncommittally, stealing his beer and finishing it in one long swig.

From beside them, Moltka points to Caine’s back. “If a Russian gave you that bullet scar on your leg, did a Russian give you those big scratches on your neck, too?”

Vassily chortles and turns back to the grill. Jupiter groans, rubbing her forehead to hide her pink cheeks.

“Yep, definitely,” Caine says.

When it comes time to put all the food to the table, the house erupts in chaos again, everyone moving and shouting like a mob in riot. Caine perpetually seems to be in the way as people zip around him. An elderly woman named Lyudmila – ostensibly of latke recipe fame – unabashedly gropes his ass on her way past. He flattens himself against a wall and tries to disappear.

In the bustle, Aleksa grabs his arm and pulls him into an adjacent room. He finds himself in a small home office, littered with cleaning service paperwork. When Aleksa closes the door, the world suddenly feels too quiet.

Unconsciously seeking reassurance, he reaches for his wedding band, but his left hand is bare – the ring is in his pocket. Without it on his finger, he feels naked and vulnerable. Caine blew it in Manhattan, and Nino found out things she shouldn’t have. Jupiter deserves better; he won’t let her down again.

“You keep doing your big-silent-type routine, that’s fine. But Nino told me everything,” Aleksa says, arms crossed. Even with her face set in such a stern expression, she’s a beautiful woman. It’s obvious where Jupiter’s looks come from. “I don’t have much to say to you, except if you hurt my daughter I will devote the rest of my life to making you miserable.”

He believes her. “I don’t want to hurt Jupiter.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to be worthy of her.”

Apparently that was the right answer. Aleksa’s face softens a fraction, and she looks him up and down. “You love her?”

Caine has no idea what to say. He’s known Jupiter less than forty-eight hours. Can any feeling developed during that short a time be called ‘love’? His life is already shifting, making room for her in a way that doesn’t feel temporary. He doesn’t want to stop seeing her after their interview on Monday.

He’s having this conversation with Aleksa, when the easiest thing for him would be to walk out of this house and never look back. These people certainly wouldn’t report him to the INS. But he’s still here, because more than anything he wants for himself, he needs Jupiter to feel content and safe.

Is that love?

Caine genuinely has no idea.

He nods to Aleksa, for lack of adequate words.

She regards him, chewing on her bottom lip just like Jupiter does. “My daughter has been lonely and unhappy for years. I’m not blind, I see that she does not like her life or her job. Her spirit is worn down. I know she loves us, but we cannot be everything to her.

“Jupiter is happy when she talks about you. The spark of joy in her eyes from when she was younger – it’s back. But romantic love is only hormones and obligations, and those things change and fade. Marriage is something else entirely. It’s not a fairytale, it’s hard work. These giddy chemicals you feel now will not stay forever. If you leave a marriage when things get difficult, you are no man at all, you are a coward and a child.”

“I know hard work,” Caine replies, respectful and earnest. “I’ve never in my life run when I was scared.”

Aleksa takes a deep breath. “Good. But you should have asked for permission before you married her. It’s tradition, to ask the family. You have a lot to learn.”

He ducks his head.

“All right, большой щенок, go eat,” she says, waving at him dismissively. “Just don’t do anything else stupid, okay? My patience is gone today.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Eleven people squeeze around the dining table, seats crammed together without any space between. Caine’s shoulders are simply too wide to fit, and he has to put his arm across the back of Jupiter’s chair and lean into her, otherwise he’ll be in Lyudmila’s lap. He eats, and he watches and listens. The conversation regularly switches between English and Russian. Jupiter whispers translations into his ear.

The family talks, and they laugh, and they squabble. They even ask Caine for his opinion during an argument over West Germany’s victory in the World Cup – he sides with Nino, which earns him a thoughtful stare from Aleksa.

They stop treating him as an oddity, and start treating him as if he belongs. Their boisterous inclusiveness reminds him of meals with his Pathfinder squad. He still has the instinct to retreat, to wall himself off behind a shield of couch pillows and coffee tables, but the terrain feels slightly more navigable than it did when he first walked in.

The meal ends long before the conversation does. Eventually Irina and Mikka collect the dishes, and the rest of the family disperses.

Jupiter takes Caine down the basement stairs.

“This is where I sleep,” she says, pulling back a curtain that hides half the space. It’s a room with concrete walls, a few cabinets and a dresser, and three single beds. The one with the blue comforter obviously belongs to Jupiter, because the wall above is plastered with astronomy pictures and Pink Floyd posters.

There are no chairs, so she sits on her bed. Caine follows.

This room reminds him of the foster homes he bounced around in as a kid, people packed in like sardines. More often than not, he was relegated to sleeping in basements and on floors. One time he was forced to sleep on a porch, until a case worker stopped by on a surprise inspection.

The difference, though, is that Jupiter’s home is filled with genuine love and warmth. These people may argue and tease, but they also look after each other. They belong to each other. Jupiter has always known that she was cared for and wanted.

“I like it,” Caine says, surveying the room.

“It isn’t very private,” she says, almost shyly. “Come to think of it, you’re the only boy I’ve ever had in here.”

He swivels on the bed, lying down and stretching out. He’s far too tall to fit, his neck bent against headboard and his combat boots propped up on the dresser. Quirking an eyebrow at her, he says, “Privacy isn’t the only issue, in terms of bringing a date home.”

“The backseat of a car isn’t any more comfortable, believe me.” Jupiter claps a hand to her mouth and groans. “Oh god, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Only date men with pickups,” Caine says, nodding sagely. “Plenty of space in the back of a pickup.”

Jupiter grins and turns toward him, folding one leg and propping the knee on his hip, her other foot still on the ground. Even though they’re alone and don’t have to put on a show of being affectionate, she reaches for his hand. Her fingers slip between his, palms pressed together.

“Sorry about this afternoon. I didn’t intend for you to get dragged out here like this. I wanted to see my family before Monday, and I wasn’t thinking. Have you been completely traumatized?”

“This has been the most rigorous afternoon I’ve had since boot camp.”

“I’m sorry – like I said, I wasn’t thinking –”

“It wasn’t bad,” Caine hastens to add. “I just meant there was a lot to take in, in a short period of time. And so much shouting. _Exactly_ like boot camp.”

“All the shouting, none of the discipline.” Jupiter laughs, then stares at their joined hands. “Thanks for keeping up the pretense. I realize this afternoon makes everything a lot more complicated. If we get through our interviews –”

“ _When_ we get through them,” he corrects.

“ _When_ we get through our interviews,” she repeats with a nod, “if you want, I can tell Mama that we broke up. Then you won’t have to perform for my family for months and months. We’ll just meet up at Chicago Pie in February to sign the divorce papers, like we originally planned.”

Caine stares at the ceiling, still holding her hand. Jupiter gnaws at her lip, watching him, but he has no idea what to say.

It feels too late for _Would you like get coffee sometime?_ and too soon for _I want to spend the rest of my life with you, isn’t it convenient we’re already married?_ What is he supposed to ask, in between?

She clears her throat, eyebrows drawn together. Letting go of his hand, she touches his shirtsleeve where his tattoo peeks out. “What does this mean?”

“It’s a Pathfinder thing. Everyone in my squad has one.”

“Can I see it?”

He reaches over and pulls the sleeve up, out of the way. She takes hold of his arm, easing it out for a closer look. Tracing up and down the contours of his muscles, she follows the circles and flares of ink from the head of his shoulder to his elbow. Her fingertips are warm and soft, and she makes a sound of admiration.

“It’s so cool,” she says. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo.”

“What would you get?”

“Something to do with space. For a long time I wanted a tattoo of Jupiter – that’s dumb, right? Where should I have it done, do you think?” She absently massages his bicep, fingernails dragging down the inside of his arm. Goosebumps roll over the back of his neck.

“Big or small?”

“Small.”

Grasping her wrist, he places her hand flat on his stomach. Pulling up the sleeve of her blue plaid flannel, he strokes the inside of her forearm with the back of his index finger. “Right here, a little Jupiter with tiny moons in orbit.”

“It wouldn’t be dumb?” she says.

“It would be perfect,” he replies. She grins, delighted, and watches him caress her forearm a few more times.

“Scoot,” she orders, nudging his hip. He obediently crams himself against the wall and she stretches out beside him on the twin-sized bed. After a bit of fumbling they work out the logistics; he stays on his back and she settles on her side, resting halfway on top of him, with chin on his shoulder. Caine closes his eyes, resisting the urge to pick her up and drape her completely atop his body. Her arm is so slender and reassuring across his chest, and she smells incredible, like orange-blossoms and beer and home.

Jupiter sighs, breath humid in the crook of his neck. “Are we going to be okay tomorrow?”

“You use Crest toothpaste, and you leave your socks on the living room floor, and you hum Duran Duran when you write in your notebook. See? I know everything about you.”

The noise she makes might be a laugh, or it might be a sniffle. He isn’t sure. “I don’t want them to send me to Russia.”

“I won’t let them take you away,” he says, curling his arm around her back, hand flattening against her shoulder. She hooks her leg around his knee and eases herself further on top of him. Her face is so close, her nose brushes his beard.

“If I get deported, you have to promise to come get me.”

“Sure. I’ll need to break out of jail first, but that’s probably pretty simple.”

After another half-laugh, half-sniffling sound, she whispers soberly, “Would you really be able to do that, Caine? Could you come get me?”

He takes his time considering the prospect from a tactical standpoint. He’s been air-dropped deep into enemy territory. He’s slipped in and out of hostile cities on a regular basis. He’s lived off insects and wild game for weeks at a time, and he’s navigated hundreds of miles in radio silence using only the stars. The process of tracking and extracting Jupiter is within his skill set. “Yes, I could do that.”

“How?”

“Well, the moment they took you into custody for deportation, I’d skip the country; jail wouldn’t really be an issue. Best-case scenario I could cross the Atlantic using a false name, or worst-case-scenario on an industrial vessel. Europe is simple, but getting through Soviet borders is another thing entirely. I’d need to avoid checkpoints and official border crossings, which means trekking through the wild. Once I’m across, language would be the major barrier, in terms of locating you. We’d have to pre-establish a communication point, someplace to leave contact information. A kiosk on a particular streetcorner, and a message in code. Something like that.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize you could – I mean, that sounds like an actual plan,” Jupiter says, taken aback. Her eyelashes flutter in his peripheral vision as she surveys his profile. “You’re serious? You can do all that stuff?”

“Yeah.” Pride blossoms in Caine’s chest, warm and bright, at the awe in her voice. Along with that pride comes the surprising realization that he not only _could_ do all that for Jupiter, but he _would_ do it. “The plan works, in general principle. The major flaw is how pissed Stinger will be. He might go to the trouble of tracking us down, just so he can shout at me.”

“But what if the INS finds out about Mama and Nino, too?” Her voice trembles.

“I meant it when I promised I’d protect them. Everything’s going to be fine, Jupiter,” he murmurs, leaning his cheek against her forehead. He strokes her arm, back and forth, to calm her down. “Just breathe.”

She holds him tighter, eyes closing as she digs her fingers into his ribs. He genuinely doesn’t mind so much, what might happen to him after tomorrow – criminal charges and jail time aren’t so daunting. He’s stared down that prospect before. The idea of Jupiter terrified and alone on the other side of the Iron Curtain is infinitely more alarming.

Jupiter’s breathing gradually evens out, and she twitches. She’s asleep.

Caine has fucked up so many things in his life. This – what’s happening now, with Jupiter – it feels more important than any anything else he’s been through. He can’t afford to fuck up this time, not with this woman.

He holds her until the afternoon light from the small windows begins to dim. His arm has gone numb and he’s got a crick in his neck, but he remains perfectly still so she won’t wake up. Just as he’s starting to drift off, too, the basement door bangs open.

“Everybody better have clothes on, down here!” Aleksa calls. “I’m too young to be a grandmother!”

Instantly awake, Jupiter flails out of bed and onto the floor with a solid _thump_. “We aren’t doing anything, Mama. Everybody’s dressed.” She groans and rubs her eyes, lowering her voice so only Caine can hear: “God, I’m so sorry.”

“It must be nice, to have someone who cares about you so much,” he replies, sitting up to offer her a hand off the floor.

She takes it, lifting one side of her mouth into a half-smile.

Aleksa pokes her head through the curtain. Her eyebrows arch knowingly as she surveys Caine on the bed and Jupiter’s wildly mussed hair. “It’s time for Caine to go. I’ll drive him back into the city.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the added warning/tag for this section: attempted sexual assault.
> 
> I know I say thanks to [redtailedhawk90](http://redtailedhawk90.tumblr.com) a lot, because she deserves _all_ the gratitude for her generous and incredibly insightful beta feedback. But at this point I'm going to bake her a cake and drive halfway across the country to deliver it, because she helped me untangle the plot for the rest of this story, and talked me down off a panicky fic ledge.

During the ride to Caine’s apartment, Jupiter negotiates a living arrangement for herself – how many days per week she’ll sleep at Caine’s and at Vassily’s. Her mother concedes that once they reveal the “marriage” to the rest of the family, Jupiter will live with Caine full-time, but she refuses to hear of Jupiter moving in with him before then.

Jupiter sits in the front seat with Aleksa; Caine sits behind her. Curiosity almost makes her turn around, to gauge his reaction to the conversation. He’s circumspect with his feelings, but Jupiter already has a handle on his fleeting microexpressions – a flick of the eyebrow, a curve of the lip, and a wrinkle of the nose. He’s quite emotive, it’s just a matter of knowing how to read him.

When she insists on more nights at Caine’s apartment, are his eyelids lowered even a fraction, in that way he does when he’s secretly pleased?

Jupiter doesn’t let herself look at him, though, because the entire discussion is a theoretical exercise. No matter his reaction, she’ll only be disappointed, because after their interviews with the INS on Monday Caine will want his apartment back. He won’t really let her live with him.

Aleksa drops them off at the corner of 92nd Street, at the Abrasax Building. They watch her drive away. Jupiter takes a deep breath and backs up, until she’s standing against the bricks, the edge of the building pressing into her shoulder blade.

Caine leans against the wall beside her, close to the entrance.

“We should finish studying for tomorrow,” Caine says.

“We should.” Jupiter lifts her arm, pushing her plaid sleeve up to the elbow and quirking a grin. “Or we could walk six blocks. There’s a tattoo place, right next to the Greek restaurant with the statue of Poseidon in the window.”

“You were serious about that?” Caine replies, his smile mirroring hers.

“Today feels like tattoo day.”

“The stars are aligned?”

“You know when there’s something you want, but you’re still uncertain, you have a floppy feeling in your stomach? It’s like a bird flapping around – not butterfly-nerves, exactly, just indecision. You want the thing in principle, but you’re not sure if this is the specific thing, or the right time. Then one day that floppy feeling is gone, and you realize you knew all along – you definitely want it. You can’t imagine how you lived without it for so long.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he agrees. A trace of a frown moves across his lips, then vanishes into one of his practiced neutral expressions, the way he does when he’s uneasy.

“Hey, we don’t have to do the tattoo thing now, if you’re uncomfortable. I can go later –”

“Now’s a good time,” he interrupts with a definitive nod. “If it’s what you want, you shouldn’t wait.”

Here in the deep end, Jupiter’s latched onto Caine’s fortitude as if it was a flotation device. Her intrusion into his life has been a nonstop set of disruptions and minor catastrophes. For some reason, he hasn’t run screaming into the sunset to escape.

_If it’s what you want, you shouldn’t wait._

Jupiter does. She wants him – in so many ways, she can’t even begin to describe them all. Reaching into her pocket for her wedding ring so she can put it on again, she beams at Caine.  

A chipper shout rings out from the nearby parking structure, down the side street closest to her. “Jupiter! Jupiter Jones!”

Titus has just emerged from parking his car and is crossing the street, dodging traffic and waving at her. Caine leans forward curiously, to peer around the side of the building.

Jupiter shoves him back with a hand to the center of his chest; she drops her wedding ring into his palm. “It’s Titus Abrasax. He can’t see us together, I’ll get rid of him. Go home, Caine.”

She only has a split-second to register the crestfallen expression on his face, his fist curling around her ring, before she turns away.

“Titus!” She waves and forces a smile. As far as Jupiter was concerned their date was a disaster, but Titus still tried to coax her into his Porsche at the end of the night, and left her with a promise to call the fake number she gave him.

“You look ravishing,” he says, pulling her into an embrace, planting a kiss on each cheek. How exasperatingly European.

Jupiter wiggles out of his arms and glances toward the corner. Caine glowers on the sidewalk, not bothering to hide behind the building. He looks like he might barrel down the block any second, ready to interpose himself between Jupiter and Titus if she shows the slightest sign of distress.

She has to keep Titus away long enough for Caine to go inside. He came to Vassily’s and played dutiful boyfriend for her relatives. The least Jupiter can do is keep Titus out of the way, so Caine doesn’t end up on the wrong side of the Abrasax family, and losing his apartment.

“Would you like to get a drink? I think there’s a little place down the street,” Jupiter says.

Titus’s handsome face lights up. “Seven o’clock is early for cocktails, but if you insist on day-drinking, I should be there to keep you out of trouble. Can’t have you going home with the wrong sort.”

“God forbid,” she sighs.

The bar is cozy, with chrome furniture, neon lights, and a wizened bartender who looks like he’s been pouring drinks for at least a century. Before they order, Titus disappears to the bathroom for an extended period of time. He comes back to their little table wearing a practiced veneer of sobriety, leg jiggling against hers with frenetic energy. Jupiter remembers what Kalique said the night before: _Titus putting god-knows-what up his nose and on his dick_.

He might’ve already started in on the nose situation, but nothing dick-related is happening while Jupiter’s in the vicinity.  An hour should be sufficient, right? An hour of small talk, deflecting innuendoes, turning down the little packet of powder he repeatedly offers? She’ll just slowly sip her martini, staring at Titus and thinking about Caine?

Without the reassuring weight of her wedding band, her left hand feels like it might float away and take the rest of her along. She keeps touching her ring finger, reaching to fiddle with a piece of jewelry that isn’t there.

Titus swills three gin and tonics to her one martini. He gushes about a charitable foundation he’s spearheading as his first official project for Abrasax Incorporated. It’s a medical service, providing affordable care in poor communities, which sounds worthwhile enough. Except the more he goes on, the more obvious it becomes that he’s not interested in helping anyone at all. He’s only excited about all the networking opportunities during fundraising galas.

By the time the elderly bartender closes the tab, Titus is swaying on his feet. His veneer of sobriety is paper-thin, his pupils wide enough to swallow his irises, his fingers twitching restlessly. He tries to toss several hundred-dollar bills at the bar and stumbles into a table, crashing to the floor with a burst of obscenities. A chair teeters and falls atop him.

“Who put so much seating in this dump? This is negligence, running a slum like this and filling it with more seats than you’ll ever fill,” he snarls, not making any effort to pick himself up. “Bloody hell, is this linoleum? Am I lying on a linoleum floor? You, barkeep! I demand an explanation for this atrocious décor.”

Jupiter ought to walk away and let Titus wallow. The bartender stares at her, half-pity and half-challenge, the wrinkles on his face puckering deeper as he frowns. It’s early enough that there isn’t anyone else working, and he’ll have to deal with Titus if she doesn’t.

She’ll just dump Titus into a cab, then circle the block and go into the Abrasax Building by the service entrance.

Teeth grinding, Jupiter picks up the bills from the floor and hands them to the bartender. “Keep the change.” She turns back to Titus. He’s glowering at the overturned chair with the haughty contempt of a monarch sentencing a traitor to the death penalty.

“Come on, Titus. Get up,” Jupiter says, grabbing his wrist and yanking. He stumbles to his feet and throws an arm around her shoulders, so she’s supporting his weight.

As he registers their sudden physical proximity, his glower shifts into a leer. “We’re going back to your place? Perfect!” he purrs, pulling her closer so his hand loops far enough around her neck to reach her breast. He squeezes.

Jupiter grabs the hand, twisting it, and shakes her head. “None of that. You’re not coming to mine, and you’re definitely not going back to your car. I’m going to pour you into a cab.”

“No cabs! I’m having dinner with Kalique, she’ll murder me if I don’t show,” he objects, enunciating his words like a kid at a spelling bee, full of grave concentration and trying to impress. “Mmm, you are beautiful, Jupiter Jones. Juuuuuupiter. Do you have brothers and sisters? Are they all named for planets? Who’s the unlucky one that got named Uranus?” He dissolves into undignified snickering and lowers his voice to a whisper. “You look like the kind of girl who enjoys it in the ass. Do you? No, nononono don’t answer, I don’t want to spoil the surprise. You can show me when we get to your place. We have just enough time before Kalique’s dinner.”

Jupiter feels nauseous; her hand itches to deliver the slap he deserves. She settles for a sharp elbow in his ribs; he grunts, easing his torso away out of instinct.

If she was a different kind of person, she’d ditch him and run, regardless of who else it affected. But she’s not that kind of person. “You’re going to your hotel, in a cab. You’re not coming to the Abrasax Building.”

Titus grins, wide and charming, white teeth on display. With a sigh, she hauls him out onto the dark sidewalk and surveys traffic, looking for a cab. Of course, there aren’t any. She’s going to have to ask the bartender to call one.

“Just a few blocks,” Titus slurs into her ear. “And you’ll be home.”

“I should leave you here on the sidewalk,” Jupiter says.

“I’ll drive myself to my hotel, shall I?” he chirps, perky in his knowledge that she won’t let him do that.

“Like hell,” she says. Ditching him at the front door of the Abrasax Building will be the quickest, safest way to get rid of him. Then she can walk around the block, into the alley, for the stairs. She won’t go in with him, and he won’t end up driving. And if she sees a taxi in the meantime, she’s dumping his ass right into it.

She begins the short trek to the next block. Titus is like an octopus, sticky limbs curling all over her as he breathes gin fumes into her ear. Just when she gets one hand under control, another snakes out to grope her.

By the time they get to the corner of the Abrasax building, the short walk and fresh air have somewhat cleared Titus’s head. He’s still got an arm around her shoulder, but he’s supporting most of his own weight.

He’s trying to guess Jupiter’s apartment number, like he’s on a gameshow and if he gets the correct answer, he’ll win the all-expenses-paid trip into her jeans. “You’re above the sixteenth floor,” he says, as she maneuvers him toward the front door. “You’ve got a rarefied air about you, like someone who’s used to altitude. Is it 18C? That’s it! You live in 18C!”

“Titus, I’m leaving you here. All you have to do is walk into the lobby, get into the elevator and push the number 27. Can you do that?”

“I don’t push buttons. S’not my job, I have people who do that sort of thing for me. Greeghan will push the button.” Titus pauses, and she can practically see his stoned wheels turning. He cries triumphantly, “Greeghan! Greeghan knows your apartment number! I’ll ask him!”

 _Goddammit_.

“Titus, you’re not in any state to see Kalique.” Jupiter says, swinging Titus around, away from the building. “We’ll just wait here for a cab, you sleep this off, and then see your sister tomorrow.”

The street is still taxi-free.

“Only if you come with me,” he says, using the momentum she created to pull her close, arms clamping around her waist like a vise. He’s so much taller than she is, but she doesn’t want to tip her head up to glare at him, because he’ll probably try to kiss her. His hips grind forward into hers and he groans lewdly in her ear.

Jupiter yanks her head to the side, and he licks her jaw, then giggles. She wedges an arm between them, elbow bent and fist under his chin.

“Let me go,” she hisses, stomping on his foot. Her sneakers leave a smudge across the top of his polished leather loafers.

The pain doesn’t deter him, but it seems to clear his buzz even more; his head snaps back, anger creeping into his expression. “I’ve spent over five hundred dollars on you, Jupiter Jones, and gotten nothing in return. That’s not very sporting.”

This isn’t the first time a rich creep has cornered Jupiter – her family has lost three separate cleaning gigs since she turned fifteen, entitled men wanting to fulfill a French maid fantasy, deciding they’ll settle for a Russian maid instead. The first time her mother walked in before anything serious happened, and after that she taught Jupiter where to stomp and how to use her knees and elbows, when she needs to.

A dismally familiar queasiness blossoms in her stomach, hot and wretched. She jams her elbow against his solar plexus, jostling for space. There’s no way this situation doesn’t end badly for her, or for Caine. At the moment, she’s so worried about him losing his apartment, she briefly considers going along with Titus to his hotel.

… She really, _really_ can’t do that.

“Titus,” she says, finally glaring up at him and praying he backs off before she has to knee him in the balls. “Let. Me. _Go_.”

“Darling,” he replies, calm and confident, “you owe me.”

Before Jupiter can bring her knee up and make contact between his legs, Titus is hauled backward by his collar. She stumbles forward with him a step, until his arms loosen and she breaks free.

“She said back off.”

Caine’s right there, with Sig’s leash in one hand and the Abrasax in the other. Sig’s growling, his ears flat, as Titus wiggles out of Caine’s grip, swinging his arms in a clumsy punch, missing him by a mile.

The hot nausea in Jupiter’s stomach doesn’t let up, because this bad situation has simultaneously gotten better and infinitely worse.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?” Titus says, shaking himself off and straightening his lapels. He draws up to his full height, nearly as tall as Caine. “How the fuck is this any of your business?”

“I’m her –” The shape of the next word hovers on Caine’s lips, but he doesn’t say it. He glances at her, seeking permission.

“He’s my husband,” Jupiter says. Those last two syllables jolt her with a possessive thrill – she’s choosing to claim him, and doing it in front of someone else. Adrenaline and nerves quiver through her legs.

Titus turns to stare at her, his grey eyes cold. “Is this an open arrangement? It’s bad form, not to say so from the…” He trails off, turning back to Caine. He lifts a finger toward Caine’s face. “Wait. _Wait._ You look familiar. I remember you from somewhere, don’t I?”

“Get in a cab, go back to your hotel and sleep this off,” Jupiter says again, twisting toward the street. Not a single yellow car in sight.

“Hold on, it’ll come to me,” Titus says, shaking his hand at Jupiter, like he’s shooing a fly. “I know – the restaurant! You’re that waiter, from the restaurant! Bloody hell! Is this a con you two run? She bilks men for meals, you swoop in to pad out the bill with expensive wine, and take the tip home?”

“You chose that restaurant, Titus, not me,” Jupiter says. “This is just a terrible, dumb coincidence. You haven’t been conned. Just go back to your hotel, okay?”

“Do you even live in this building?” Titus demands, his face twisted into an indignant frown.

“No,” Jupiter says. “I don’t.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Titus says, his voice frighteningly calm and sober.  “You manky chav, how dare you humiliate me like this? Do you know who the fuck I am? I will run you out of this goddamn city. I will _ruin_ you, you fucking slag!”

Caine’s eyes are dark, his attention fixed on Titus with the concentration of a predator tracking prey. The sight is terrifying - Jupiter has never been more acutely aware of how big Caine is, how mindfully he usually carries himself, because right now that mindfulness is gone. In the way he's standing, the bent of his posture, it's never been more obvious that he's spent the better part of his life honing his fighting skills.

Oh god, this is going to get violent – there are going to be police, and incident reports, and assault charges.

Before Jupiter can open her mouth to try to restrain Caine, he growls to her, “May I hit him?”

Trembling with relief and dread, grateful and nauseous and terrified of this ticking Abrasax timebomb she’s just created, Jupiter shakes her head and manages, “No. Let’s go home.”

Titus has already fled, throwing open the door of the building and making a beeline for Greeghan’s desk. He starts talking and pointing toward the two of them outside.

“Are you okay?” Caine still looks furious, like he needs to tear something apart with his hands.

She nods. “Why are you here, Caine? You were supposed to be upstairs.”

“Sid was about to make Lake Eerie. I waited as long as I could for you to come back. I even circled the park twice, trying to stay away. I was …” Caine stares through the glass building doors as Titus finally steps into the elevator and disappears “… maybe a little bit concerned.”

Jupiter scrubs her hands over her face. Her throat feels raw, her knees still shaking. Caine only married her so he could get this apartment; she’s likely the reason he’ll lose it.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

Greeghan stares at them as they walk past, head swiveling like a sphinx ready to devour them for trespassing, but whatever Titus said wasn’t enough to make him get out from behind his desk. Inside the elevator, Jupiter leans into the wall and crosses her arms. The violent tension slowly draining from his body, Caine stands on the opposite side of the space, and she closes her eyes against the sting of rising tears, until they subside.

Upstairs, Balem’s door is shut tight.

Once they’re inside Caine’s apartment, Jupiter sits on the couch and pulls out her notebook. The moment Sig’s off his leash, he leaps up beside her and rests his head in her lap.

“So. Um.” Subdued, Caine carefully puts the leash away. “Was Titus like that for the entire –”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jupiter interrupts, frowning at the pages and pages of notes she’s made for tomorrow’s interview. Her fury has turned into disappointment in herself, for letting Titus take control of the evening, for how it’s going to affect Caine. If she talks, she’ll cry – angry tears, but it’s crying nonetheless and she doesn’t want to do that in front of him. “Let’s just study. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

He stares at the ground, then nods.

They study, and no one knocks on the door to tell Caine he’s been evicted. They eat dinner, and they go to sleep. Jupiter lies on the couch, in the blue-hued city light filtering in through the patio windows, and she stares at the pattern of shadows on the ceiling.

 _You like this boy?_ her mother had asked this afternoon, at Vassily’s house. _You want to spend your life with him?_

 _Yes_ , Jupiter said. And as she said it she realized it was true – which is ludicrous, because regardless of the month they’ve been married, she’s only known Caine for forty-eight hours. What she feels is reckless and ill-advised and clichéd. This is the sort of cautionary tale a 25-year-old divorcee tells her friends.

Too restless to sleep, Jupiter gets up and goes into the bathroom. She washes her face for the second time and brushes her hair; she stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles, and a pimple’s forming on her chin.

“Hello, my name is Jupiter. I’m from America,” she says in Russian, practicing. “Can you direct me to Red Square?”

In the little hallway, she hesitates at Caine’s bedroom door, her fist poised. Shivering and breathless, too frightened to scrape together her pride and return to the living room, she knocks.

“Yes?” It sounds far away, like he’s in bed.

“I um – I didn’t write it down in my notes, after our conversation yesterday. Which side do you sleep on?”

There’s a long stretch of silence. Eventually the doorknob turns, and Caine opens the door. Wearing only his striped pajama pants, he squints at her. “I’m on the right.”

Jupiter bites her bottom lip. “You’re sure?”

He nods, lifting his eyebrows and blinking sleepily. How is he so calm? How the hell did he actually fall asleep?

“It would help me remember for the interview tomorrow … if we tried it out?” she says haltingly, so it sounds like a question.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he surveys her, considering. When he steps aside, there’s just enough room for her to walk into the room, if she wants.

Her smile is fleeting and grateful. She slips inside and he closes the door. Sig’s head lifts from where he’s sprawled on the bed and he whines in greeting.

Caine walks around to the right-hand side of the bed and sits down, facing away from her. Staring at his broad, freckled shoulders in the moonlight from the window, Jupiter climbs into the left side of the bed, pulling the blanket over herself and wiggling her feet under Sig’s belly.

Glancing over his shoulder, so she just catches his profile, he eases down onto his side. Still facing away from her, he tucks his pillow under his head.

Jupiter hesitates, then shifts closer, closing the distance between them. Her chest presses into his bare back and she rests her cheek against the place where his neck meets his shoulder. His skin is warm through her t-shirt, and he smells like – well, little bit of smoke and charcoal from the barbecue, the scent of the city clinging to him, and underneath all that, he smells like himself.

She carefully rests her free arm along her own body, hand curled on her hip. Caine gradually relaxes, his back rounding into her until they’re molded together from the shoulders down. Sig rises up just enough to re-settle against Jupiter’s legs and nestle in.

Jupiter’s anxiety, her shame and embarrassment, all of it feels so far away from this warm, calm place. Caine is here, and she’s safe. The acid knot in her stomach loosens. Her toes curl against his calves, and she lets out a slow breath.

“I’m the big spoon, right?” Jupiter whispers. She moves her free arm, fingertips grazing his ribcage. He lifts his elbow, hand coming back to pull her arm around himself. Their fingers link against his stomach. “Is that what we agreed?”

She feels him swallow. “Yeah, just like we agreed.”

“Goodnight, Caine.”

A humming noise of agreement vibrates through his chest. She presses her cheek against his back and closes her eyes and doesn’t let herself think about how this might be the only night she ever spends with this man. Instead, she matches her breathing to his, and pretends this is the first of thousands.


	10. Chapter 10

When Jupiter wakes up, the windows are still dark. She’s on her back, one arm thrown out to the side. Caine’s on his stomach, head on the pillow with hers. His arm and leg stretch across her body, so he’s practically curled around her. He’s fast asleep, sleeping so solidly he isn’t even twitching. Sig sprawls out along his other side, tail hanging off the bed.

Caine’s face rests inches from hers. Lips parted, snoring quietly, the small lines around his eyes are relaxed away.

Jupiter takes her time studying him – the lovely collection of muscles across his back and shoulders, the tattoo along his bicep, the pleasant weight of his arm below her breasts, the straight line of his nose and fullness of his mouth, the way his beard softens the curve of his jaw.

She inches her face closer, so their noses touch, and she closes her eyes.

No matter how long she stays like that, she can’t go back to sleep. When she finally turns to look at the digital clock beside the bed, it reads five o’clock.

Of course. It’s Monday morning, Jupiter ought to be eating breakfast by now, getting ready for her daily cleaning run. Most Mondays dawn with a creeping sense of tedium, a work week full of drudgery stretching out in front of her. This Monday, with their INS appointment in only three hours, tedium has been replaced with dread.  

She gingerly extracts herself from Caine’s arms. He stirs, groaning in protest and trying to pull her back into bed. “Jupiter, please,” he mumbles. “Stay.”

“I’ll be right back,” she says, plucking his hands from her waist even as she brushes her lips against his forehead. He settles down with a sigh, eyes never fully opening; Sig settles down with him.

Because she knows she won’t get to sleep again, and lying in Caine’s bed thinking about how she’ll never really come back is too much to bear, Jupiter showers and gets dressed in her interview outfit – a pencil skirt and silk blouse taken without permission from her aunt’s closet.

By the time six o’clock rolls around and the sky begins to brighten, she’s on the couch and deep into her notes. Caine steps out of the bedroom, absently scratching his bare chest and yawning in the hallway. As short as it is, somehow his hair sticks up more than usual.

He’s fucking adorable. Wiggling his toes against the cold hardwood floor, he looks like Christmas morning standing here in October.

She grins. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

He nods. “You?”

“I’m on the left,” Jupiter replies, tapping her temple. “Got it. Thanks for the … study help last night.”

Another nod, and a lingering gaze, before he disappears into the bathroom. Precisely forty minutes later, he emerges with a trimmed beard and groomed hair, smelling faintly of cologne and wearing his grey suit. They sit at the kitchen table together to eat breakfast, with Sig curled at Caine’s feet. Jupiter wishes there was some way to bring the INS agents to this apartment, because anyone who saw them like this, discussing their day over coffee and domestic as you please, would definitely believe they fell in love and then got married.

Hell, _she_ believes it. Does it really matter if the technical details are jumbled, the events out of order? The end result is the same: Jupiter has found the man she wants to spend her life with, and he's agreed to be her husband. 

The problem is that she and Caine agreed this was only supposed to be an act, just one weekend out of their six-month marriage, and then they'd go their separate ways again. Those plans are still in place, and she has no idea how to broach the topic of changing them.

After breakfast, he excuses himself to make a phone call. He obviously wants privacy, so Jupiter heads into the living room to do some last-minute cramming on his early ’80s hair-band phase.

The knock at the door is so loud, Jupiter hops to her feet on instinct. She stares at the door, then toward the kitchen. Caine has wedged himself into the far corner of the room, near the refrigerator. His back’s hunched toward her, and he’s obviously wrapped up in the conversation she can’t hear, scribbling something on a scrap of paper. He didn’t notice the knock at all.

Jupiter’s standing in front of the door when the knock comes again. The peephole is high, so she rocks onto tiptoes to look through.

It’s Greeghan.

 _Oh god_.

With another glance toward the kitchen, she unbolts the door and steps outside before Greeghan can wedge his way in. He backs down the small staircase, obviously startled.

“I think I know why you’re here,” she starts to say, then trails off. Balem stands in the penthouse lobby, glowering. He’s in a finely tailored black suit; aside from the gold metal tips on the collar, it’s the most normal thing she’s seen him wear.

“Believe me when I tell you, you have no idea,” Balem says, rasping like he swallowed a cheese grater for breakfast.

“Mr Abrasax is serving you and Mr Wise a formal notice of eviction, effective tomorrow,” Greeghan says. In spite of his boyishly freckled cheeks, Balem watches with gargoyle-like satisfaction.

“Twenty-four hours’ notice isn’t legal. You have to provide ten days,” Jupiter says. She knows, because one of her cleaning clients was evicted a few months ago. “Anyway, on what grounds?”

“You know what grounds, Ms Jones,” Greeghan replies. He looms over her, and she squelches the urge to run back up the stairs for Caine.

“I’m afraid not. You’re going to have to be specific.”

“You’ve violated the building’s residency codes,” Balem says, his wide flat lips pulling into a smirk. He steps beside Greeghan. “You’ve conned my brother Titus out of a considerable sum of money, you’ve stolen designer clothes from my sister, and the residency board has revoked permission for your brute of a dog to live on the premises. We can escalate these matters to the police, if you’re feeling stubborn. Or you can both quietly pack your things and be gone by the end of the day.”

“I haven’t stolen Kalique’s clothes,” Jupiter protests, stepping away from Greeghan and toward Balem, hands on her hips. “She lent them to me, I’m returning them.”

“And whose word do you think New York’s finest will believe, when I bring this matter to their attention? Shall I call Detective Apini, and have him take you elsewhere for questioning?”

Two interviews in one day might be enough to do Jupiter in.

“You’ve had it in for me since the first time we met in this lobby. What is your deal? Why do you hate me so much?” she blurts out.

Balem narrows his eyes, shuffling forward to stand toe-to-toe with her. He reaches for her face, long fingernails curling toward her cheek. She leans back a fraction, but doesn’t let herself back away.

“I haven’t figured out the relationship – how you fit into the picture – but I know you’re related to Ms Seraphi. I know why you’re here, living above me, as if your presence can shame me into –” He bites off the rest of what he was going to say, lips stretching into another grotesque smile. “You’ll get _nothing_. Because I control this building. It’s _mine_. Your hovel on the roof belongs to _me_. It should have been torn down ages ago, and turned into something worthy of the Abrasax name. Ms Seraphi didn’t agree, and look where that got her. Hmm?”

“Go ahead,” Jupiter says, “try to evict us by tomorrow. I’ll call the residency board and appeal. As a matter of fact, why don’t you go ahead and call Detective Apini right now? I’ve got something I’d like to say to him, about Ms Seraphi. About what you did to her.”

It’s a dart made out of guesswork, and thrown blindly, but it hits the mark.

Balem’s flat-handed blow across Jupiter’s cheek snaps her head sideways. Her face stings and she instinctively brings her knee up, connecting with Balem’s crotch before he can touch her again.

He crumples to the floor with a wheezing scream, like a pool raft losing air.

When Jupiter steps back, so he can’t reach for her feet, she bumps directly into Greeghan. She whirls around to face him and snaps, “If you touch me, I’ll file assault charges!”

The rooftop apartment door bangs open, and Caine practically flies down the stairs toward the three of them. The door rebounds, snapping shut and clicking as it automatically locks behind him. Sig starts barking inside.

“Greeghan, what the hell’s going on?” Caine says, snagging Jupiter by the shoulder and pulling her behind himself as he squares off toward the doorman. They size each other up with the wary experience of men familiar with hand-to-hand combat, gauging odds.

“Get her out of my building!” Balem shrieks to Greeghan from the floor, spittle flying from his mouth. “I want her _OUT!!!_ ”

Sig continues to bark, wild and ferocious. Greeghan’s gaze flickers toward the apartment door, a shadow of fear crossing his face. He won’t be going inside while they’re gone, at least.

“We’ll deal with this when we come back. We’re going to be late for our interview,” Jupiter says behind Caine, breathless. It would be a disaster if he showed up at the INS office with a black eye. She hooks a finger into his belt loop and tugs him toward the elevator. “Caine, come with me.”

He does as she says. The elevator shows up after only a few seconds, while Greeghan’s still helping Balem to his feet.

As soon as the doors close, Caine turns to her. “You’re okay?” Jupiter nods. “What was that about?”

“Something to do with Ms Seraphi? He thinks I’m related to her. He’s a freaking nutjob,” she replies, sagging against his side. His arm goes around her, holding her steady. “What time is it?”

“We’ve got ten minutes,” he replies.

Just like the night before, there aren’t any taxis on the street. Everything is at a bumper-to-bumper standstill, anyway. In her heels, Jupiter leads Caine down the sidewalk, hustling toward Central Park in search of a break in the traffic, or sight of a yellow car. When they get to the end of 92nd, she surveys the green space across the street. The INS offices are on the opposite side of the Park, below 5th Street.

“Are you up for a run?” Caine asks, glancing at her shoes.

In answer, Jupiter breaks into a jog across the street, threading through traffic and into Central Park. It’s less than a mile, but it seems like a marathon in heels and her narrow skirt. Caine could easily outpace her, but he matches speed instead, trotting alongside with rapidly dwindling patience.

They’ve plunged away from the trails, into a wooded glen, when he finally takes her by the elbow. “This is taking too long. Hop on.” He turns just enough to show her his back.

Seriously?

In a split-second she decides that losing her dignity is a far sight better than missing their interview and getting shipped out of the country. Hiking up her pencil skirt to her thighs, she grabs his shoulders from behind and clamps her knees around his hips.

With Jupiter firmly fixed on his back, Caine starts running.

He moves like isn’t fazed at carrying an extra hundred-plus pounds, Jupiter assumes because he’s spent his military career lugging packs of equipment into battle zones or something equally as intimidating. But as she bounces along, holding onto him while he speeds past morning joggers and parents pushing strollers, the absurdity of this entire situation strikes her, and she starts to giggle.

By the time they reach the far side of the park she’s laughing so hard she can scarcely hold on. He comes to a stop and she slips off his back, wiggling her skirt down her legs and holding her aching sides, trying to calm down. She feels freakishly giddy. This morning full of eviction threats and looming deportation has finally cracked her brain. That’s got to be it.

When Jupiter opens her mouth, intending to thank Caine, she blurts out, “Balem is going to evict you.”

Panting, a light sheen of sweat on his face, he gapes at her in surprise.

Panic drowns her giddiness. Surely this is the straw that will break Caine’s patience. He married her for the apartment, and she’s the reason he’s going to lose it. Once he loses the apartment, she’ll lose him too.

“This is all my fault, I’m so sorry. I can fix it! I won’t let them kick you out! We’ll make a big production of getting a divorce, for the residency board. You’ll publicly disown me, and I’m sure they’ll let you and Sig stay,” she says in a rush, her heart hammering.

Caine digs into his trouser pocket, eyebrows drawn together and mouth pulled to one side. He produces a folded piece of paper and presses it into her hand.

“I don’t care. Really, Jupiter, I don’t. It’s only an apartment. There are other places to live,” he says. “Just do me a favor and keep this safe.”

Her gold wedding band is folded inside, and the note is covered in a series of numbers, along with the words 'your majesty' scribbled inexpertly in Russian.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Latitude and longitude, courtesy of an old contact in the Pathfinders. This is a drop location in Moscow, a transit stop with a public notice-board, where you can leave your codename and coordinates. I figured you might … well … just in case.” Caine shrugs, as if he hasn’t just handed her the most precious, most extraordinary gift she’s ever received.

Jupiter stares at him, then at the paper – at the promise laid out in those dashes of ink, and the wedding ring on top of them – and she’s speechless.

She slides the ring onto her finger. Caine reaches for her hand. “We’re late. Come on.”

“Wait!” Grabbing his elbow, she pulls herself onto tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck. “In case I don’t get the chance again.”

She kisses him. For a moment he’s stiff with shock, unmoving as she dangles from his shoulders. When she pulls away, he grins, then kisses her back.  His mouth is pliant and yielding this time; when she opens her lips he does the same, tongue nimbly meeting hers. The contact is warm and slick and soft. It’s like tasting the exact, perfect thing she's always wanted, but could never put name to.

His arm slips around her waist, pulling her against his hips. With the other hand he cups her jaw, palm angling her head so he can deepen the contact. Opening her mouth fully, she laps at his tongue, and her feet leave the ground as he picks her up. She’s never kissed anyone with a beard before. It tickles pleasantly, in a way that makes her want to know how it tickles against her chest, and her belly, and between her thighs.

Someone nearby whistles at them, shrill and startling. He sets her onto her own feet, and Jupiter pulls in a deep breath, fingernails curling into the back of his neck as she steadies herself.

Tipping his forehead against hers, he blinks a few times, like he’s trying to remember where he is. He manages, “Our appointment started five minutes ago.”

Hand in hand, they sprint the last few blocks, bursting into the INS office and practically collapsing against the wood-paneled front desk. Behind a panel of glass, the secretary stares at them in astonishment, one hand poised over the phone, as if she’s ready to call security.

“Jones-Wise, for an eight o’clock appointment,” Jupiter pants.

The secretary flips through the appointment book in front of her. “You’re late.”

“There was traffic,” she says. Caine grunts in agreement.

“Have a seat. The agents will be right with you.”

The waiting room is full; there aren’t any seats. They huddle in a corner, and Jupiter gives Caine a tight smile as she tucks the piece of paper into her bra, for safekeeping.

“This is going to be okay,” he says.

She nods. “I know.”

Within moments, Agent Razo appears. “Mr and Mrs Wise?”

Caine holds her hand through the inner-workings of the New York branch of the INS: endless corridors lit with green-tinted fluorescent fixtures, rows of glass-paneled doors, acres of linoleum tile. They come to a set of interrogation rooms. Agent Ibis waits beside one open door, and Agent Razo stops at the other.

“Ms Wise? Come with me,” she says.

Jupiter squeezes Caine’s hand. He lifts one corner of his mouth. She has no idea what’s going to happen behind that closed door, or what waits afterward. On adrenaline-driven impulse, she grabs his tie.

“One more,” she says, pulling his face to hers.

“Yes, your majesty,” he replies, the last word muffled by her mouth. The contact is quick and desperate. When he disappears into his interrogation room and the door closes behind him, Jupiter feels like the air has gone out of the entire building.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I could practically list [redtailedhawk90](http://redtailedhawk90.tumblr.com) as a co-author, because without her brainstorming assitance and helpful feedback this story would've been abandoned long ago. Thank you for your patient contributions, my friend, I am so grateful to you!
> 
> This chapter in particular is part of [fuckyeahjupiterascending's](http://fuckyeahjupiterascending.tumblr.com/post/126770983070/jupiter-ascending-fic-challenge-1-pick-n-mix) fic challenge, and includes three prompt words: tale, jewel, and hunt.

Jupiter’s parents were both university professors, and their daughter inherited a quick mind and a studious nature. As proud as any mother should be, Aleksa bragged about Jupiter’s achievements and hung her certificates and report cards on the wall of Vassily’s basement. That motherly enthusiasm dried up in late high school, when the guidance counselor sent home college brochures and encouraged Jupiter to enroll in AP classes. Knowing her daughter couldn’t go to university, Aleksa earnestly thought it kindness to discourage Jupiter's academic engagement. Better for her to lose interest now than to face crushing disappointment later.

During her junior year, Jupiter secretly scraped together the fees to pay for her AP exams. She spent months imagining herself in the brochure pictures of green-treed and red-bricked college campuses. She spent weeks studying for those tests, because she’d convinced herself that presenting her mother with university credits might change her mind or magically alter the reality of her immigration status.

Jupiter had never failed a test in her life, until she sat down at that first AP exam. Three questions in, she froze up – cold hands, hot face, heart hammering so fast her vision was pricked with stars – all of it brought on by sleeplessness nights of study, worry about her future, and the gnawing disappointment looming on her post-high school horizon. She failed that first AP exam, didn't show up at the rest, and didn't enroll in another AP class again.

All that happened years ago. But today, in this small INS interrogation room with its buzzing fluorescent light and chipped formica table, Jupiter can practically smell the the tang of freshly-sharpened pencils and the inky musk of AP exam booklets, straight from their plastic security wrap. The tape recorder in the middle of the table quietly whirs away, poised to immortalize her failure.

Initially she keeps the panic at bay through sheer force of will, reflecting Agent Razo’s calm and matter-of-fact demeanor back to her for the first half of the interview.

Of all the silly things, soda is the stumbling block.

“Pepsi. No, wait, that’s the wrong answer – it’s Coke,” Jupiter stammers, in answer to a question about Caine’s choice in drinks.

Agent Razo’s appraisal is sharp. “Wrong answer? What do you mean, exactly?”

“Coke. I only meant that he likes Coke.” Jupiter ought to crack a joke about how forgetful she is, or make up a story about how she convinced Caine to change his preferences after they met. But her heart is fluttering against her breastbone and the blood has gone from her face. All her concentration is dedicated to keeping her still in her seat. 

“And is he right or left-handed?”

The answer is on the fifth page of Jupiter’s notebook. She can see all the text around it, every single factoid jotted down, but she can’t read the only word she needs to answer the question.

This morning, which hand did Caine hold his coffee cup in? She blinks, trying to visualize him at the kitchen table. “Right … handed?”

“Are you asking _me_ , Ms Wise?” Razo says, leaning back in her chair and making a note in her file.

“No,” Jupiter replies, curling her fingernails into her palm and trying to keep her breathing slow. “You're just making me really nervous."

"Do you have something to be nervous about?" Razo asks, and Jupiter swears she sees the flicker of a victorious smile.

Within a few minutes Jupiter finds her footing again, but the interview seems to go for ages afterward – days, years, _millennia_. Eventually Mr Ibis knocks at the door, and Ms Razo steps out to consult with him.

She comes back in with a set of papers.

“I’m serving you with a Notice To Appear, your official summons to the Immigration Judge. You’re being summonsed because the INS is not satisfied that your marriage is above-board. Unfortunately, I don't have final say over your immigration status, only the judge does. But they will have this interview, fully recorded, and my notes submitted into the record as evidence,” Razo says blandly, as if she isn’t swinging an axe at Jupiter’s neck. An axe made of paper, but deadly nonetheless. “Your court appointment is this Friday, at eight in the morning. This document lists your rights and responsibilities, including the charges. Sign the top copy to acknowledge receipt of these summons, and keep the bottom copy for your records. Do you understand?”

“No," Jupiter snaps. "I mean, I understand what you're saying, but – you’re wrong. I’m in love with him. I really, properly am.” The black ink on the paper blurs as tears well in her eyes; she blinks them back. She feels angry and terrified, but the anger is easiest to hold onto, so she grasps it with both hands and doesn’t let go.

Razo tilts her head. “Easy words to say.”

Jupiter doesn’t mean to laugh, but it comes out shrill and mildly hysterical. “They’re really not, though. Not when they’re true.”

“Sign the paper,” Razo repeats.

“You’re throwing me in front of an immigration court because I couldn’t remember Caine's favorite soda?” she says. “Just to be clear, for the record, that’s why you're asking me to sign this paper?”

“Ms Wise,” Razo replies, a clear note of warning in her voice.

“If you really think my marriage is a sham, shouldn’t you call me Ms Jones?” Jupiter mutters, but she does as she’s told, hand shaking as she signs the paper. “What about Caine? Did he get a summons?”

“His immigration status isn’t in question. He isn't required to appear this Friday. But afterward, the judge will decide whether to charge him with fraud, depending on the judgment in your case.”

“Does he know? Did you tell him?”

“No. He’ll receive a summons by mail, if the charges are filed. Agent Ibis released him fifteen minutes ago. For now, your interview is officially ended.” Razo leans over to stop the tape recorder on the table. “I’ll escort you out.”

Caine wouldn’t have left the building without her, Jupiter’s certain of that. She’s not ready to face him yet. “I need to use the restroom.”

Alone in the bathroom, Jupiter doesn’t cry.

She dabs cold water over her face. She leans on the radiator and tips her head back and breathes, deeply and evenly, until her lightheadedness passes and she feels like she’s back inside her own body, instead of floating above it. An eerie calm descends over her – the kind of calm that exists beyond the frying pan and in the fire, when everything is burning and no matter which way you run, there’s only more destruction.

Only four days to figure out how to present herself to the judge. Not only for her own sake, but for Caine, because if she blows this last chance to plead her case, he’s going to end up in jail.

Humiliation sits heavy and sour in her gut. Reaching into her shirt, she pulls out the scrap of lined notebook paper from her bra. She traces his clumsy Cyrillic letters, trying to imagine a transit stop somewhere in Moscow.

If Jupiter tells Caine about her court date on Friday, she's half-convinced he'll do something reckless to help - _try_ to help, at least. She can't stand the idea of him ruining his life for her. This isn't his problem to solve, it's hers. She blew the interview, she has to fix it. Jupiter can be clever and persuasive in front of a judge; she was the Debate Club captain for three years running. Of course she can’t allow Caine to abandon his life here and follow her, if she gets deported. Assuming it comes to that, she’ll try to make a plea deal with the judge to keep him free and clear, legally speaking. Just so long as he's safe, along with her family, that's all that matters.

When Jupiter showed up at Caine’s apartment for their initial INS interview, she strutted into the Abrasax building like she really lived there. That was the trick, she’d told herself – not just pretending, but _believing_ she belonged in Caine’s life.

Last time, she failed. Her heart wasn’t in it, not the way it needed to be. Here she is again, and she can’t afford to fail because this is the end of the line. When she stands in court on Friday, she has to be all-in on this relationship, so the judge is convinced too.

Taking a few more deep breaths, Jupiter stares at herself in the mirror and smooths out her hair.

God help her, she was telling Razo the truth: she’s in love with Caine. Her heart is in it, this time. Her heart, her everything, she’s in over her head. This water’s too deep to stand in; it’s time to start swimming.

 

~~~~~

 

When Caine’s interview is over, Agent Ibis escorts him to the waiting room and promises that Jupiter will be out shortly. Fifteen minutes later, Caine begins to take note of the movement of INS employees in and out of the building. Thirty-five minutes, and he moves to stand beside the exit, regardless of how it appears to the secretary who keeps eyeing him from behind her glass partition. Fifty minutes, and he’s well into a mental list of tactical advantages and disadvantages, going deeper into the building to extract Jupiter now versus leaving and hunting her down later.

At fifty-three minutes, she finally emerges from the door beside the secretary’s desk. Her cheeks are pale, and there are circles under her eyes that weren’t there when she woke up this morning.

“Stay in the city, Ms Jones,” Agent Razo says from behind her, glancing pointedly at Caine.

He rises from his chair, eyeing the agent warily. Without looking back, Jupiter walks directly to the door, snagging Caine’s hand and pulling him along on the way out. On the sidewalk, they keep moving for a few blocks, vaguely in the direction of the Abrasax Building.

“How did it go?” he finally asks.

She drops his hand. “I tripped up once. It wasn’t too bad.”

His stomach lurches. Out of instinct he glances over his shoulder and hustles faster, to put more distance between them and the INS offices. She keeps up, her shorter legs taking two steps for each one of his.

“Tripped up? How? What happened?”

“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine. How was everything for you?” Her attention remains glued to the concrete.

He ought to probe for more information, to figure out why the INS needed so much extra time to interrogate Jupiter, and whether they should be running instead of walking, but the experience has obviously left her rattled. She doesn’t need an interrogation from Caine, too. She’s not acting panicky or worried, so he dulls the sharp edge of his curiosity, setting it aside for later.

“The interview wasn’t a problem,” he replies. He spent the full hour telling a stranger about his favorite person. He’s never done that before; it was easier than he imagined.  

“I’m just so glad it’s over,” she sighs. “Except now I have to get to the Village to meet my mom and Nino for our afternoon cleaning job. Do you mind if we swing by your place to collect my stuff? That way I don’t have to come back later tonight, before I go home.”

“If you want.” Another wave of panic prickles across the nape of Caine’s neck, at the realization that Jupiter doesn’t have any compelling reasons to spend time with him anymore. He’s never really let himself believe she’d stay with him after this INS interview, but he can’t imagine returning to his life before she showed up on his doorstep. The bleak prospect stretches out before him, days and weeks and years without her.

He absently twists his wedding ring on his finger as they thread through Central Park.

Caine’s an unemployed convicted criminal; why would Jupiter stay? She’s intelligent and beautiful and young, she wouldn’t want to be with someone who’s made such a mess of his life. He’d hoped that this morning in the Park meant something, but she obviously kissed him out of gratitude for the message coordinates and the promise of rescue.

After an unbearably long silence, Jupiter finally speaks. “Caine, I don’t know how to say this without being awkward.”

Shit, here it comes. _I can’t be with someone like you. I’ll see you in February, for the divorce._

He braces for the words, shoulders stiff and breathing shallow. “I understand, Jupiter. It’s fine.”

She arches her eyebrows at him. “You do? Thank god! Because we’ve already eaten so many meals together, asking you out seems weird. But what does dating look like from here, when we’re already married and I know what brand of boxers you’re wearing? Do we step all the way back to a coffee date?”

“Wait – wait, what?” He stops walking, hands swinging gracelessly by his side.

Her cheeks turn pink as she folds her fingers and bites her lip. “I don’t want to go back to before, pretending this weekend never happened. But I can’t just move in with you, either. That would be crazy, right?” He’s not quick enough to answer, and she shifts from one foot to the other and keeps talking. “We could have dinner, Friday night? But you’re going get evicted because of me, and if you don’t want to see me again until our divorce, I don’t blame you.”

“Chicago Pie, let’s meet there – for Friday dinner, I mean, not for the divorce,” he says, words tumbling over each other. It isn’t what he wants to say; he wants to invite her to stay at his apartment again this weekend. Or forever, preferably, but asking that now would probably come across as desperate.

Sure he can paste a veneer of dignity over this feeling, but it’s bound to wear thin and crack. If he isn’t careful, he’ll be begging her to marry him again before today’s over.

Jupiter’s mouth curves into a grin, but the expression doesn’t last long. “And if something terrible happens before then” – she shakes her head a fraction, and continues – “I mean, if you’re evicted, you’ll just come eat at Vassily’s instead.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll deal with that when we come to it.” Caine reaches for her hand, because he needs Jupiter to ground him. He feels so buoyant he might just spontaneously levitate. They stroll toward the Abrasax Building again.

Before they enter the lobby, Caine readies himself to deal with Greeghan. The odds of this morning’s confrontation getting physical at this point seem low, but unpredictability is the name of the game with the Abrasax family and their employees.

When Greeghan spots them, he rises to his feet. He doesn’t spring from behind his desk to chase them out of the lobby; instead, he keeps his eyes averted, and says respectfully, “Mr Wise, Ms Jones. Welcome home.”

The elevator door dings open, revealing four uniformed police officers. Balem Abrasax stands in their midst, his hands cuffed behind his back. His face is twisted in thunderous indignity, fury mixed with bafflement. Caine’s seen that same expression on soldiers’ faces when they’re on the losing end of a skirmish, bleeding out in the field.

Jupiter instantly steps away, backing into Caine. He shifts to the side, allowing her enough space to duck behind him if she chooses. She presses against him but doesn’t try to hide, curious pity on her face as she watches Balem being marched out of the building.

“What the heck was that?” Jupiter asks, after they step onto the empty elevator and the door slides closed.

“No clue,” Caine replies with a shrug.

The lobby on the twenty-eighth floor is a hive of activity. At least a dozen uniformed police officers swarm in and out of the penthouse, carrying boxy computers and stacks of financial ledgers. Stinger’s positioned in the center, directing the chaos. When he sees Caine and Jupiter, he waves them over.

“What is this?” Caine asks.

“My search warrant finally came through,” Stinger says. He hefts an antique photo album in his gloved hands. Flipping it open, he turns it around for Jupiter and Caine’s inspection. There’s a black and white picture of a woman in pin-curls and a flapper dress. She’s the spitting image of Jupiter, from her face to her posture.

“Holy crap, who is that?” Jupiter says, instinctively reaching out to touch her doppelganger.

“Ah-ah, that’s evidence,” Stinger warns, pulling it out of her reach. “It’s Ms Abrasax’s property, we found it in Balem’s apartment. We searched the rooftop flat with a fine-toothed comb after the murder, but Balem was meticulous in cleaning up after himself. Lucky for the prosecutor, he wasn’t so meticulous about his own flat, and he kept this trophy from his victim, complete with blood splatter.”

“He’s the one who killed her?” Caine asks, leaning forward to study the photo. The resemblance to Jupiter is uncanny.

“He hasn’t confessed as much, but the evidence speaks for itself. And as icing on the schadenfreude cake, today this building officially passes into the real estate portfolio of the Aegis Group. It’ll be the crown jewel of their New York holdings.”

Jupiter reaches for Caine’s hand without looking, and she squeezes it hard. “Does that mean the Abrasax employees will be out, too? Because if the Aegis Group needs someone to manage this building, Caine would be a perfect fit for the job. He’ll get you a copy of his resume this afternoon, so you can pass it along. Won’t you, Caine?”

Stinger studies her, then nods at Caine. “Not a bad idea, that.”

It’s a _brilliant_ idea. It’s a job, one that presumably pays money and means he’ll keep his apartment, and keep Sig on premises, too. Caine says, “I’ll bring copies by your apartment later today.”

“Greeghan tells me you had a physical altercation with Balem this morning,” Stinger says to Jupiter. “Is that right?”

“He slapped me. I kicked him in the balls. He thought I was related to Ms Seraphi, and he decided he was living out some weird version of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart,’ with me staying in the apartment above him.”

“I’ll need an official statement from you.”

“Can you do that another day?” Caine interjects, because the last thing Jupiter needs this morning is another official interview, even if it’s only with Stinger.

Jupiter squeezes his hand again, in silent gratitude. “I’ll be back in the building tomorrow morning at seven, I’m scheduled to clean Katharine Dunlevy’s apartment. I can stop by your apartment beforehand, would that work?”

“If you’d prefer.” Stinger’s gaze keeps wandering toward their joined hands. “Speaking of witness testimony, should I expect a call from the INS, asking for my daughter?”

“No,” Caine says. He isn’t sure if he’s telling the truth, but he sounds convincing anyway. “We’re done, Kiza’s safe.”

“I see.” Stinger stares pointedly at their hands again. “Well, plenty to wrap up here. Stay out of the way for a while, would you?”

Jupiter and Caine head up the rickety stairs into his apartment. Sig meets them at the door, happy and surprisingly calm, for how long he’s been cooped up alone. Jupiter scoops up her socks from the living room and her makeup from the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, she has her duffel bag across one shoulder and is ready to walk out the door again.

Caine ducks into the kitchen, and he emerges holding a stack of spare Polaroids of them canoodling in the Park yesterday.

“If you’re around tomorrow morning, I’ll be working in 9C,” she says. “Mama and Nino will be there, too. But you could swing by?”

“I’ll swing by,” he replies, moving in front of her and tucking the Polaroids into her purse. There are still a few scattered on his kitchen counter, but surely she won’t mind if he keeps them.

Jupiter reaches out to smooth the already flat lapels of his suit coat. Her fingers trace his tie, which she makes a pretense of straightening before gripping it in both fists and tugging him forward. She might as well have him by a leash and collar.

Caine’s going to wear a tie every day for the rest of his life.

He obligingly dips his head, lips open and eyes closed. She presses her mouth to his top lip, then his bottom, slow and soft. The kiss isn’t tentative; it’s exploratory, the opposite of her nervous desperation in the park. It’s a promise of things to come, of the vast expanse of time stretching out before them, where they don’t have to cram everything into one weekend, but they can luxuriate in the experience of getting to know each other.

Her tongue finds his, and his sensory processing rides roughshod over his thinking brain. Heat prickles from the crown of his head to his toes, every taste and smell and slick warm touch, the way she sighs if they break contact even for an instant, he’s immersed in every minute detail.

Their bodies aren’t even touching; she’s only got one hand on the back of his neck and the other still fisted around his tie. One hand pressing flat into the small of her back, he pulls her closer, his entire torso curved down to reach her mouth. She sucks his bottom lip between her teeth and squeezes, a bit too hard.

The needy sound he makes is an involuntary reflex, and she rewards him by tugging his tie again. Drawing back just enough to grin and survey his face, she touches her tongue to the corner of his mouth. “Mmm, good.”

It’s embarrassing how fast blood rushes to his cock at that, like a teenager on a hair-trigger. Caine hasn’t gotten laid in a while, but he’s old enough to be past this sort of slavering lack of self-control.

He’s going to need a long, cold shower when Jupiter’s gone.

Or maybe, just _maybe_ , if he makes that noise again, he’ll somehow convince her not to leave for work. Would dropping to his knees and begging her to lead him into the bedroom by his tie be too much?

“Oh – oh bloody hell!”

Caine recognizes Kiza’s voice, but he’s so wrapped up in Jupiter he doesn’t care. When she pulls away in surprise, craning her head to the side, he whimpers shamelessly and chases her mouth with his own.

“I thought I was alone, oh my _god!_ ” Gaping at them, Kiza breezes in from the patio. She’s wearing a baggy white beekeeper suit, netted bonnet in her hands.

Jupiter lets go of his tie and steps away, guiltily clasping her hands behind her back. Clearing his throat and swaying on his feet, he mumbles, “The bees okay?”  

Kiza grins from the other side of the room, smugness tinging her features. “When I got home last night, Dad read me the riot act. I was gonna kill Caine for ratting me out. But this –” she gestures at the two of them “—what _is_ this?”

Face flaming red, Jupiter replies, “Um … first base?”

Kiza squeals and does a jig in place. “You have to name your first child after me. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter. It’s matchmaker law.”

“Dammit, Kiza, you gave me a whole lecture about not making things weird, and look who’s breaking the rule this time,” Caine says, his own cheeks hot with blood. “Don’t you have some beeswax to mind or something?”

“All right, all right. I’ll see myself out. You two just … keep up the good work!” Kiza flits past them to the front door, pausing long enough to spin around and give Caine a mock salute and a wink. “As you were, soldier.”

When the door closes behind her, Jupiter adjusts the luggage strap across her shoulder. “I should go, too. I have to drop off Kalique’s dress, and I’m late meeting Mama and Nino.”

“Sig needs to get out. I’ll walk you to the subway,” Caine says. “I mean, if you want me to.”

“I’d like that.”

He follows her all the way to the turnstiles at the station, and their goodbye kiss is so thorough that an elderly man threatens to call the transit cops on them for public indecency.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, Caine knocks at the door of 9C. Aleksa answers and stares up at him in the corridor, lips pursed.

He probably shouldn’t have brought the little cardboard tray loaded with to-go coffees from the shop around the corner. It smacks of trying too hard. But how do you make a good impression on your in-laws, if they already think you’ve been lying to them for a month?

Aleksa plucks a coffee from the tray and sniffs at the opening in the lid, then takes a sip. “Hmph. Black.”

“Jupiter doesn’t take cream and sugar. I thought maybe she learned that from you,” he says.

Aleksa cocks an eyebrow at him and steps aside, holding the door. “You’re here to work, большой щенок? Because I haven’t started on windows yet.”

Caine spends the next few hours squeegeeing windows and cleaning bathtubs. Jupiter apologizes for her mother more than once, trying to take the duster out of his hand and shoo him on his way; he borrows her hot pink rubber gloves and scrubs toilets without complaint.

He also tries, so very hard, not to read much into the fact that she isn't wearing her wedding ring.

“Your mother keeps calling me something in Russian,” he says, kneeling beside her in front of the enormous jetted bath and ignoring her attempts to snatch the sponge from him. Her arms are too short to reach the far side of the tub, anyway. “I think it’s something like … ‘bye shoy schenok’?”

She abruptly stops grabbing for the sponge and smothers a laugh, so it sounds like a snort instead. “Bye shoy schenok?” she echoes in his terrible accent, sagging against his side as if she’s trying not to collapse in a fit of giggles.

“What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure.” Straightening up, she rubs at a nonexistent spot on the porcelain with her index finger. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Yes you can,” he says, because she obviously doesn’t want to tell him. “What is it? Is it that awful?”

“It isn’t awful. It means ‘big puppy.’” She finishes scrubbing and collects the spare sponge from his unresisting hand, a thoughtful look on her face. “Mama called my last boyfriend cукин сын, ‘son of a bitch.’ So you could have it worse, in terms of dog-related nicknames.”

When Katharine Dunlevy’s apartment is sparkling, and Aleksa and Nino are waiting for her in the stairwell, Jupiter pauses to take his left hand in both of hers. She traces his wedding ring with her index finger.

“Thank you,” she says. “Not just for helping clean, but for everything. The last few days are the best I’ve had in … oh, ages. Thanks for letting me crash into your life and set it on fire.”

“An actual fire was the only disaster we avoided last weekend.” Eyes cast down, Caine stares at her hand, splayed across his palm. “It turned out okay, though?”

“Jupiter!” Nino calls down the corridor, from the stairwell door. “Is your Ken-doll husband paying for those doe eyes you’re making? It’s time to get to our next job and earn some actual money!”

“I’ll see you Friday night?” Caine whispers.

Jupiter slips her arms around his ribs, palms flat against his shoulder blades, and squeezes him breathless. Her eyes close as she leans into his chest.

Just as abruptly, she lets go and forces a smile. “Yeah. Thanks again.” Without looking back, she scampers down the hallway to Aleksa and Nino.

 

~~~~~

 

At 8:15 on Friday morning, the kitchen phone rings. Caine has been awake for a while, but he’s still in bed, listening to the rain hammering at the patio windows. He stumbles into the kitchen to answer. “Hello?”

“Get Jupiter out of your bed and put her on the phone right now.”

It’s Aleksa.

“I’m – get – what? Jupiter?” Aleksa is so sternly certain, Caine almost obeys automatically, taking a single step toward the bedroom.

“I expected more from her, than to sneak away like a teenager. I know young love is stupid, but traveling into the city in the middle of the night is dangerous. I was going to call at five this morning, but Nino convinced me to wait, she said Jupiter would probably meet us at the Schultz job. And oh look, who hasn’t shown up yet?”

Since Sunday night, Caine’s imagined Jupiter in his bed plenty, but she hasn’t appeared in the flesh. “Jupiter isn’t here.”

“I understand, большой щенок, you want to protect her. But I am her mother, no one protects her better than me. Put her on the phone.”

“Your daughter isn’t here.” The vestiges of his sleep lift as the full implications of this conversation settle in. Jupiter isn’t with her family, and she isn’t with him. She left home early enough to get into the city first thing; she didn’t tell anyone goodbye.

 _I tripped up once_ , she’d said about her INS interview.

“Ms Jones, Jupiter isn’t here, but I know where she is,” Caine says. “I’ll find her, and I’ll make sure she returns to you.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Dropping the phone into the cradle, he practically flies from one room to another, dressing and collecting essentials within a matter of seconds. He’s got his passport, a wad of cash left over from his restaurant gig, and enough layers of clothing and coats to get through a few nights in the rough. Finally he grabs Sig’s leash and takes one last look around the apartment.

It was nice while it lasted.

“Come on, Sig,” he says. “Time for a run.”

Even in the rain, the sprint across Central Park is quicker without Jupiter on his back. Sig bounds at his heels, and Caine tries to calculate the odds that the INS has put out a BOLO on him, and whether he should risk flying commercial across the Atlantic with a dog in tow.

Sig will attract attention, just the sort of attention that would give an airline employee cause to remember the blond man and his big dog, if law enforcement asks. But Caine can’t leave Sig behind any more than he’d leave Jupiter. He’ll just have to ship Sig separately, arrange for transport to a non-extradition country that doesn’t require animal quarantine, where Caine can collect him safely.

At the end of the block near the INS building, he slows down, shoulders hunched against the steady downpour as he assesses the terrain. In the grey morning light, a stream of umbrella-toting people arrive at the office, for work and interviews and applications. He observes for a few minutes, blinking rain from his eyes and catching his breath, before he loops Sig’s leash around a light post.

“Stay,” he says, with the corresponding hand gesture. The dog sits and stares at him, head tilted and water dripping from the tips of his ears.

Like a lone man facing a battalion of enemy soldiers, Caine walks toward the government building.

Before he gets close, Jupiter steps out of the front door. She’s got a manila envelope in one hand, a black umbrella in the other, and she’s wearing the same outfit as their first interview day. His instinct is to run to her, bundle her into his arms and start moving – to save her.

Instead he stops, wary, watching for INS agents on her heels.

Jupiter hugs the envelope to her chest and hops down the front steps of the building. She lands in a puddle, and with a smile spreading across her face, leaps to the next with a splash that douses her heeled pumps completely. She twirls her umbrella out of the way and beams at the sky, closing her eyes as rain soaks her.

Caine finally closes the distance between them, hands balled into fists and shoved into the pockets of his leather coat.

“Jupiter?”

She flinches and whirls to face him, the grin falling from her face. “Caine! They told me they wouldn’t call you in!”

“The INS didn’t call. Your mother did,” he replies. He casts another cautious glance at the building. “She was angry. And then … I was worried.”

“Oh! But I left a note on Mama's dresser,” Jupiter says, reaching up to rub raindrops from her eyelashes with the back of one hand. The other clutches the manila envelope against her stomach. “I guess it doesn’t matter if she didn’t see it, because everything’s fine, it’s fixed. I fixed it!”

“What does that mean?”

“Remember I told you that I slipped up on Monday? They asked me to report in this morning, to court. Judge Orous was nice. I brought up the Fourteenth Amendment and talked about what a model citizen I am. I showed her our polaroids, and convinced her I’m crazy am about you. The INS admitted both of our tapes for evidence. The judge said yours was a textbook husband interview. She even played a few highlights for the record.” Jupiter lifts an eyebrow at him. “I had no idea that the first things you noticed were my eyes and my breasts, in that order. The US government has it on file.”

“I didn’t say anything to the INS about your breasts,” he stutters, too taken aback to reply any more coherently.

“You said you liked my purple dress, and you mentioned the low neckline,” she says. “No subtlety points awarded, Caine Wise.” Swinging her umbrella up again, she lifts it high so he can join her. He’s already soaked through, but he steps under anyway, so they’re huddled together.

“Jupiter, you – you had to see a _judge_? Goddammit, why didn’t you say anything?” Caine demands hoarsely. His brain has finally shifted into the proper gear, and a potent cocktail of emotions swirls through his chest. Annoyance and relief mixed with adrenaline, he’s still ready to jettison everything in his life to follow Jupiter halfway around the globe, if need be. He’s also ready to sit her down and lecture her about all the incredibly logical and recklessly passionate reasons she should’ve fully briefed him on the situation, because they’re supposed to be working on this INS situation as a team.

It’s a very long, very intense speech, one that’ll probably end with him babbling on about interpersonal operational tactics and blinking back tears. Words have never been his strongest suit, so instead of a lecture he settles for, “You should’ve told me. I deserved that, at least.”

Jupiter’s gaze darts behind him, to where Sig is tied to the light post. The dog is on his feet now, happily panting at the sight of her. She sucks in a sharp breath, comprehension dawning. “Oh – you came here this morning to – you were really going to -”

“I did. I was.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, lowering the umbrella to the side and flinging herself into him. The manila envelope crinkles between them. His arms automatically fold around her, and she keeps talking into his damp chest. “I’m so sorry. I knew I could handle this, I didn’t want you to worry. Agent Razo said you’d be left out of it, I thought I was keeping you safe.”

 _She_ was trying to protect _him_?

Jupiter lets out a deep, shuddering exhale that Caine feels through his stomach. “God, you were really about to skip the country? Geez, Caine, an American soldier barging through the Iron Curtain to find his green card wife in Russia – that’s not real life, that’s the plot of a Rambo movie.”

It begins to dawn on him exactly what a mess the two of them are, when they’re together. A fantastic mess, but still.

“It’s crazy, and thank you isn’t enough, but I don’t know what else to say,” she sighs. “You’re right, I should’ve told you. I won’t keep anything like that from you again. Please forgive me?”

Of course he does; how could he not? He closes his eyes and bends his head down, murmuring against her temple, “You fixed it?”

Pulling out of his arms and lifting the umbrella over them both, she cradles the manila envelope. She’s beaming again, face lit up like a beacon. “The judge gave me a temporary green card, the official copy is being sent out next week!”

Caine’s acutely aware of how stupid his grin is, because various foster parents pointed it out to him, often and loudly. By the time he worked his way through the Air Force, he had such a reputation for solemnity that his Pathfinder squad teased him whenever he cracked a smile. But at this moment he doesn’t care if he looks like an idiot, because he’s standing in front of Jupiter. He even suppresses the instinct to duck his head to hide his joy, meeting her eyes instead. “Really?”

“The only catch is we’re on probation. We have to report to the INS office once a month, for the first year of our marriage. Which means canceling our divorce date in February, and rescheduling it for next autumn,” she says, studying him for a reaction. “If you don’t mind?”

“That’s fine. That’s perfectly okay.” The American government has placed a gift in his hands, delicate and priceless. Is this cosmic restitution for the fact that he lost his place in the Pathfinders? Whatever it is, he isn’t going to fuck it up, not this time. “I don’t mind.”

She surveys him up and down. “You’re soaked to the bone! And I have to get to the Schultz job and figure out how to explain all this to my mother. Go home and dry off, before you catch your death.”

“Is that a royal command, your majesty?” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

Leaning into him one more time, she murmurs, “I’ll see you tonight, щенок.”


	13. Chapter 13

When Jupiter shows up at Chicago Pie, Caine is already waiting at a table. She pauses on the sidewalk outside the window, where they first saw each other, and studies him. He's absorbed in his newspaper, and doesn't immediately notice her. For some reason he’s more dressed up tonight than he was for their wedding, wearing a button-down and tie with his leather jacket and combat boots.

When they first met, she thought his ears stuck out. She was wrong; his ears are perfect.

She finally taps on the glass. Heat blossoms behind her sternum, at the way his face lights up at the sight of her. He stands, gentlemanly and formal, and she notices he’s wearing his wedding ring. That heat spreads down her stomach and settles between her hipbones, slow and steady.

Ignoring the tickle on the bottom of her feet, she doesn’t run into his arms. Instead she follows his example, maintaining a ladylike pace all the way inside.

“You’re so beautiful. I mean – that’s a beautiful top,” he stutters, gesturing toward her jeans and flannel shirt.

“I feel really underdressed,” she replies, nodding toward his tie as he pulls out her chair. “I haven’t seen that one before.”

He clears his throat, oddly bashful. “I bought it this week.” He leans over a fraction at the waist, so the tie dangles next to her. She instinctively reaches out to touch the black and grey patterned silk.

“I like it. Is it supposed to look like a circuit board?” She glances up to find him holding his breath, staring at her hands with intense fascination, like he’s waiting for something.

Jupiter’s memory flickers, the feel of silk wadded in her fist as she kissed Caine in his living room on Monday. The way he’d puffed out his chest, the happy noise he made when she pulled him closer by yanking his tie.

_Oh._

“Can I straighten it?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

He nods, adam’s apple twitching. “If it’s crooked.”

Delicately holding the tie between thumb and index finger, she tugs it lightly, then reaches up to adjust the knot at his throat, without tightening it. Caine’s eyes cut down to the tabletop, his cheeks delectably pink.

Well, this is incredibly promising information to file away, for later this evening.

“I’ve never learned how to do a tie. Will you teach me to make that knot?” she asks, her grin verging on a leer.

“Sure.” He clears his throat again, lowering his pitch. “I can do that.”

Caine sits, they order deep-dish pizza, and they talk. There’s no frenetic exchange of information like last weekend, and they don’t flounder in the usual first-date small talk. They discuss everything and nothing, curious and absorbed by each other; anyone overhearing their conversation would assume they’d known each other for months. The pizza gradually disappears, and afterward they share an umbrella and stroll down the street to a bar.

“I’m coming back into the city tomorrow to get my tattoo,” Jupiter says, after a few sips of vodka Collins to steady her nerves. “Should I be worried about how much it’ll hurt?”

“It definitely hurts, especially on the inside of your arm. When the lady put the tattoo needle here,” Caine says, gesturing near his armpit, “I nearly passed out. It wasn’t as bad as getting shot, but it’s not far off, in terms of the pain scale.”

Jupiter laughs. “Wow, Caine, that’s fantastic. Definitely don’t sugar-coat anything.”

“I’ll never lie to you,” he replies with a shrug. “But on your forearm, it’ll hurt less. I can come, if you want me to.”

“Of course you’re coming,” she says. “I need a hand to squeeze when it gets painful.”

He lifts his glass and swigs half his whiskey. The tumbler clinks as it hits the bar afterward. “If your mother isn’t expecting you home, you could stay in the city tonight. It’s easier than going all the way to Brighton Beach just to come back tomorrow.”

Jupiter leans sideways and tips her head conspiratorially onto his shoulder, as if Aleksa is eavesdropping behind them. “Mr Wise, are you inviting me to sleep over?”

Downing the last half of his glass, he swivels his barstool to face her, knees bumping into her thigh. “Jupiter, you left your toothbrush on my bathroom sink, and Rainbow Brite panties between my couch cushions.”

“I admit the toothbrush was on purpose, but the panties – geez – that wasn’t –” Eyes wide and cheeks blossoming hot, Jupiter bursts into a mortified giggling fit. Her faded cotton cartoon panties? Tonight’s seduction is off to the perfect start. _Crap. Smooth as ever, Jupiter._

Caine continues, “This week was a scavenger hunt. Eyeliner in the medicine cabinet, Chapstick in the kitchen, an earring in the observatory. Are you always this forgetful, or were you marking territory?”

Jupiter tries to take a drink, and ends up nearly choking. Coughing and flustered, she puts her wrist to her mouth and scrapes together her composure. He watches, clearly entertained.

Eventually she wheezes, “Okay, I’ll sleep over tonight.”

“Good.” He shifts back on his barstool with a nod of satisfaction. “But I’m still playing hard to get, and this isn’t our fourth date.”

Caine’s pertly smug expression sends her into another surprised sputtering fit, which is good, because it helps cover her disappointment. Jupiter managed to get through today’s cleaning jobs by way of very imaginative, very graphic ideas about how this evening would end. “We’re sticking to that story from last week? You’re _sure_ this isn’t our fourth date?”

“We got married on our first date,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Last weekend was our second date. Tonight’s only the third.”

“All of last weekend was a single date? How do you figure?”

“A date ends with a goodbye and a kiss. That didn’t happen until Monday morning, at the subway station,” he says.

“Ohh – and the kiss during the wedding ceremony,” Jupiter says, dredging up that memory for the first time since it originally happened. On an already awkward day, that moment was most awkward of all: standing beside a complete stranger when the judge said _you may kiss the bride_. To save them both, Jupiter had rocked up onto her toes and pecked the air beside his cheek.

“What about Tuesday, at Katharine Dunlevy’s apartment?” she says. He opens his mouth to reply, and Jupiter holds up her hand to stop him. “No – you’re right, scrubbing toilets can’t count as a date, with or without a kiss. Point taken.” She purses her lips in resignation. “This weekend is our third date, then.”

One blond eyebrow shoots up. “You’re staying the entire weekend?”

“It’s gonna take that long for me to remember where I hid the rest of my stuff in your apartment,” she replies, flagging down the bartender for another drink.

By the time midnight rolls around, they’re on the couch at his apartment watching David Letterman. Although ‘watching’ is too generous a term; they’re paying more attention to each other than the television. Jupiter’s worked her way onto Caine’s lap, sitting sideways with her legs across the sofa. She has one arm around his shoulders and the other hand playing with the tie against his chest. His head is craned sideways to reach her mouth, and his palm is warm where it cups the back of her neck.

Their kisses are easy and slow, punctuated with grins and breathy laughter when they bump teeth in their enthusiasm. In spite of what he said at the bar, part of Jupiter wants to straddle Caine here and now, strip him naked and claim every inch of him, place his hand over her bare chest and feel the warm metal of his wedding ring against her skin. If she pushed, he’d probably relent; but he set a boundary, and she’ll respect it. Anyway, there’s giddiness in knowing all that’s to come, like standing at the edge of a precipice and looking down. She’s savoring the way her entire being flutters at the thought of it, luxuriating here, knowing they don’t have to rush.

When David Letterman signs off and Bob Costas signs on, Jupiter pulls away and buries her face in Caine’s neck, nuzzling into the warm spot below his ear. The stubble dotting beneath his jaw tickles the tip of her nose. Her body is pleasantly suffused with a low-key sort of lust, and she’s relaxed and sleepy.

“I’m tired,” she says.

He licks his lips, swollen and red because she’s been sucking on them for the better part of an hour. “Ready for bed?”

She hums in assent, leading him down the small hallway. Before he ducks into the bathroom to brush his teeth, she hooks a finger around the knot in his tie and tugs, loosening it. He waits in patient rapture as she figures out which end to pull, to untie it completely and slip it from his neck.

“Next time you shop for ties, I’ll come along,” she says, neatly folding the fabric in her hand. “I’d like to pick some for you to wear.”

In answer, he leans down to kiss her temple, then shuffles to the bathroom as if in a daze. Jupiter leaves the tie atop the dresser and picks a clean black t-shirt from the drawers.

When it’s her turn to brush her teeth, while Caine is changing in the bedroom, she changes out of her jeans. His t-shirt is loose and soft and falls just to the top of her thighs. When she steps out of the bathroom, his eyes momentarily go wide and his gaze skims down her bare legs.

“If we’re sticking to the fourth-date guideline, then you ought to have known,” she says airily, opening the small bedroom window, so she can hear the patter of rain. Slipping under the comforter on the left side of the bed, she punches her pillow a few times to soften it up. “I warned you last weekend that I’d steal your t-shirts. It was enticement, anyway, you just left them folded in your dresser drawer for anyone to take.”

Caine switches off the light and drops onto his back in bed beside her. “That would hardly stand up in court. Your eyeliner is on the sink in my bathroom. If I claim it for myself, I suppose that falls under your enticement guidelines, too?”

“You’d look sexy with eyeliner,” she says, yawning and scooting over to nudge his shoulder. He turns onto his side, so she can curl up against his back. Sig leaps onto the bed, settling down behind Jupiter. “We’ll try that tomorrow. You can keep it, if it looks better on you than it does on me.”

He sniffs in amusement. She presses her cheek to the nape of his neck and inhales.

“I like this,” she whispers.

Caine is quiet for so long, she decides he’s fallen asleep. Just as she’s drifting off, he reaches for her hand and pulls it around to rest flat against his chest, where his heart thumps against her fingertips.

 

~~~~~

 

For the first time in forever, Jupiter sleeps past sunrise. Rain still patters outside the open window, and when she opens her eyes the digital clock reads 7:16. The bedroom is so cold her breath mists in the air; she’s under the comforter, snug on her stomach, with her shoulder pressed against Caine’s. He’s already awake, staring at the ceiling on his back, blanket pulled up to his nose for warmth. Sig sits on the floor beside the bed, pointed ears perked forward, occasionally tipping his head and whimpering.

“Morning,” Caine says, absently stroking her hair. Jupiter scoots closer, resting her cheek on his shoulder and stretching an arm around his ribs. He flops her hair into her face by accident, but she doesn’t bother to move it, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch instead.

Like a cat basking in a sunny spot, she languidly eases herself atop him by degrees. Eventually her knee crooks over his pajama-covered thigh; she brushes against something solid between his legs, and he grunts.

“Sorry,” she says, grinning against his chest and not really sorry at all.

Fingernails curling against Caine’s ribs, she toys with the idea of reaching into his pajamas to give him a hand with his morning situation. It wouldn’t _technically_ be sex. It would leave them in the clear for his fourth-date guideline.

As if reading her thoughts, he eases his hips away. “I’ll feed Sig breakfast, before he starts barking.”

At the word “breakfast,” Sig scrambles to the kitchen, nails _tick-ticking_ as he skids on the wooden floor. Caine moves slightly slower than the dog, extracting himself from Jupiter’s arms and swiveling around to sit on the side of the bed, so his back is to her. Yawning, he leans his head down to scrub his fingers through his hair.

“Mmmm.” His narrow waist and broad shoulders, dappled with freckles, are a tantalizing spectacle. She hooks an index finger in the elastic waist of his pajamas, and when he stands up they give a satisfying snap against his dimpled hipbones. Snickering, she rolls over and pulls the comforter across her face.

“Coffee,” he grumbles, not unkindly. His pillow thumps down beside her head. “Time for coffee.”

Still under the covers, Jupiter listens as Caine scoops a bowl of dry dog food in the kitchen. The scent of brewing coffee drifts through the apartment, machine percolating on the kitchen counter. She tracks his movement by the creak of aged floorboards as he returns down the hall, and when he turns on the shower, water rushes through pipes in the adjoining bedroom wall.

Jupiter imagines him standing under the shower spray, rivulets of water flowing down the contours of his body like a topographical map. Did he bother turning on the hot water, or is he dousing himself in cold? Maybe he’s leaning against the wall, cock in hand, doing for himself what she isn’t allowed to do until next week.

Jupiter dwells on that thought, cocooned in blankets and lying in the warmth he left behind. This morning is so novel, in this private place without her mother and Nino and the rest of her family tramping up and down the basement stairs – and with her strapping green-card husband naked in the next room. Exhaling slowly, she slips her fingers under the edge of her panties, tickling along her own hipbone toward her thighs. Caine’s shower goes on for an eternity; by the time he turns off the water, Jupiter’s far too distracted to notice.

She definitely hears the bathroom door squeak open a few seconds later, though. Snatching her hand from between her legs, she flings the comforter off her face and sits bolt upright.

Caine stands in the hallway, only a towel around his waist. He looks concerned. “You okay?”

“Fine, yeah. Totally fine. Why?” The words come out way too fast. The unnatural way she slouches, trying to appear relaxed, doesn’t help matters.

“You look flushed. Feverish, or something?”

“The comforter’s too fluffy. It’s an oven under here.” Avoiding his eyes, she gets out of bed and slinks past him to lock herself into the bathroom.

They take Sig for a long walk in the rain, and afterward Caine sits down and lets Jupiter try her eyeliner pencil on him. After experimenting with various applications, she declares he looks best in a Cleopatra-style. In the afternoon they visit the tattoo parlor. An hour later, Jupiter leaves with a delicately-rendered version of her namesake planet and its moons on her forearm, orbits traced in fine dotted lines like lace. True to his word, Caine holds her hand the entire time.

At six o’clock, the kitchen phone rings. Jupiter picks up, and before she can say hello, Stinger rumbles through the line, “You’d better bloody well be down here in half an hour. Kiza’s got a cookbook out and the stove’s been on all afternoon, and you’re not allowed to make excuses this time. You’ll be down here, or I’ll come up there and haul you by the scruff.”

The two of them have been together all day, and Caine hasn’t said a peep about dinner with the Apinis. “Of course he’ll be there,” Jupiter says. “Should I send him with a bottle of wine?”

After a beat, Stinger hazards, “Jupiter?”

“Yes?”

“Fine, I have two hands. I’ll come up there to haul _both_ of you by the scruff, if I have to. Half an hour, and you'd better be at my door. I already bought beer.”

After _Blossom_ is over, they head to the basement to sit at Kiza and Stinger’s kitchen table and eat honey-glazed chicken. They discuss the Yankees and Kiza’s bees. They talk about the Aegis takeover of the building, about Kalique and Balem's impending eviction. Balem has hired a legion of lawyers and to fight the murder charge tooth and nail. The case is definitely going to trial, and Jupiter will likely be called to testify.

The entire evening, Stinger and Kiza act as if Jupiter was supposed to be there all along, as though she's already part of Caine's regular standing dinner invitation. "It's every other Saturday," Kiza informs her. "Dad's afraid Caine's subsisting on a diet of Cheetos and beer, when we don't feed him."

When the food is gone and the conversation begins to lag, Stinger and Caine collect the dishes. Kiza grabs two beers from the fridge and beckons Jupiter into the living room. They settle on the couch, and Kiza hands over a bottle. Lifting her eyebrows expectantly, she directs a pointed stare at the ring on Jupiter’s left hand.

Jupiter looks through the kitchen door, at the backs of the two men working at the sink. With a gentle kick to Kiza’s shin, she murmurs, “Okay, so I owe you. What do you want? A fruit basket? A Gap giftcard?”

Kiza lets out a choked laugh, smacking Jupiter’s arm with the back of her hand. “If you promise not to let him take himself too seriously, we’ll call it even.”

After another beer, and an intensely competitive round of Monopoly (voices were raised and crude names were shouted, and Kiza threatened to make Caine and Stinger hug it out), Jupiter and Caine finally take their leave. As enjoyable as last weekend was, cajoling him into carrying her up flight after flight, she doesn’t miss the stairs. When the elevator is carrying both of them, his hands are free.

Before they clear the sixth floor, he’s got her pinned against the elevator wall. Jupiter’s had such fantastic self-control all day, really, she’s been a model of restraint. It’s endlessly entertaining, spending her days with Caine; they never run out of things to talk about. But it would be even more endlessly entertaining if they punctuated their conversations with sex (or punctuated their sex with conversations, really, she’s not picky), just a few pauses here and there, up and down, in and out – _god_ she has to get her mind out of the gutter. At this rate, she’ll spontaneously combust before next weekend.

It was easier to keep her mind off sex before they started kissing. But Caine’s soft lips and his warm hands and his body – which is practically built like a jungle gym, ripe for all sorts of climbing and acrobatics – all of it provides so much fodder for the imagination. Jupiter has spent so much time considering Caine from every angle, she could design a Disney ride to highlight the finer points of his physique.

When the elevator dings at the top floor and the door slides open, Jupiter doesn’t let him pull away. She walks on tiptoes, backing him through the lobby and to the bottom of the rooftop stairs.

“Since we’ve managed the kissing part” – she sucks his top lip, dragging it between her teeth before letting go – “I could say goodbye right now, stay in the lobby, and knock in … mmm, two minutes? Then we’d be on our fourth date.”

“You could do that.” He pauses, pensive look crossing his face. His eyebrows pull together, that deep cleft forming between them. “I know you think I’m being silly, with this whole fourth-date thing.”

“I promise I don’t,” she replies, immediately stepping away to give him space. Her chest constricts with embarrassment; she shouldn’t have pushed, he drew that line for a reason. “I’m sorry. I’ll wait until you’re ready. I promise I won’t ask again.”

He chuckles wryly, taking her hand in his own. “It’s not what you think. I’m not uncomfortable. Last weekend, we were stargazing on the patio and you told me about the history we’ll never have, the history where our relationship happened in the right order. The way you talked about it, it sounded like a Christmas list.”

“A Christmas list?” Jupiter echoes in confusion.

“All the things you wished for us, exactly _how_ you wanted them, dating and sex and sharing clothes and …” He visibly swallows the rest of that sentence, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “It was a good list. A _great_ list. When you talked about those things, I realized I liked the idea of them, too.”

“I know it’s too late to make us normal,” he continues. “I can’t pull apart our crooked pieces and put everything in the right order, the way they should’ve gone. But I wanted to give you a few things from your list. That’s all.”

His gaze drops and he frowns, shaking his head as he mutters, “God, that idea was – it was better in my head? It sounds so idiotic when I say it out loud. I’m being stupid.”

Speechless, Jupiter grabs him by his hunched shoulders and plants kisses along his downturned face – over his cheeks, across his forehead, down his nose. He stiffens in surprise, like he’s ready to pull away, but then leans into her touch. His skin turns warm against her lips, blood rushing to his face.

“Caine, that’s not stupid,” she replies. “It’s thoughtful and romantic, right up there with drop location coordinates. And I adore the fact that our ‘crooked pieces’ are crooked. I wouldn’t go back and put things in the right order, not for anything. But I like the idea of holding onto parts of our never-history, picking a few items from that Christmas list. Let’s definitely do that.”

He lifts one corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jupiter kisses him, lips closed, a simple gesture of gratitude. Afterward she tips her head and squints thoughtfully. “What else was on that list? Flowers, and a movie, and red lingerie?" He nods, perking up at the mention of lingerie. "And wasn’t there something about you crying – ”

“Nope!” he interrupts, reaching for her waist. His fingers find flesh and tickle; she squeals in delight and dances away, elbows defensively glued to her ribs. 

She gasps, “I clearly recall you’re going to cry during the first time we –”

“It’s been a long day. Bedtime!” Caine lunges and, in spite of a valiant dodge on Jupiter’s part, picks her up and throws her over one shoulder. Even with all the jostling, he’s careful not to bump the bandage covering her fresh tattoo. Legs kicking, she howls with laughter as he tickles her all the way through the front door and into the bedroom.

When he dumps her onto the mattress, she bounces right back up and grabs him. Unresisting, he allows himself to be whirled around and shoved prone, with his knees over the edge of the bed. Jupiter pounces, fingers wiggling against his ribs, under his arms, in the hollow of his neck, everywhere that ought to be vulnerable.

“I’m not ticklish,” he says, watching her frantic efforts with the smug amusement of a tiger being attacked by a mouse. It’s infuriating.

“Bullshit.” She grabs his nipples through his t-shirt and pinches. That elicits a yelp, his hips bucking off the bed in surprise.

On her knees above him, she throws her arms into the air. “Victory!”

“Cheater,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “That wasn’t tickling, that was an ambush.”

“I could apologize and kiss them better, except you’ll have to wait until next weekend,” she says, backing off him with a shrug. She settles cross-legged on the mattress. “What’s it going to be tonight, Letterman or bedtime?”

“Bedtime,” he says, reaching out and enveloping her in his burly arms. She squeaks and collapses into his embrace. Eyes closed, he noses into her shoulder and stretches a leg across her thighs, so she’s pinned.

He’s just so _solid_ , the same way a rolled-up carpet is solid – without any fluff or give, heavy as a battering ram. He could probably run headfirst through a load-bearing wall and come through the other side with hardly a scratch. He’s so pliant and docile for her, and he makes her feel absolutely safe; but she can imagine him barreling through Soviet border checkpoints all over Eastern Europe to reach her in Moscow, pure unstoppable brute force mowing down everything in his path. The thought is frightening and weirdly sexy, even if it's something she never really wants to see.

She can also imagine Caine with silver hair and crow's feet around his eyes, when his muscles jiggle a bit and he's more likely to mow down a lawn in the suburbs than a Soviet checkpoint. That image is sexy, too, a frisson of potential, the road from here to there, the adventure of traveling it together.  

“Shouldn’t we change clothes and brush teeth?” she asks, contentedly wiggling closer.

“Nope,” he mumbles.

"You're going to sleep in your combat boots?"

"Yep."

“I suppose I deserve this,” she sighs in mock resignation, staring at the ceiling. 

He kisses her shoulder. “Jupiter, I think we both deserve this.”

Two minutes later, she makes him get up, because she's definitely not going to sleep in her bra. They watch Letterman in their pajamas, and fall asleep on the couch.

 

~~~~~

 

Sunday afternoon, they take off their wedding rings and ride the subway all the way out to Brighton Beach. Caine walks Jupiter home from the station and they say goodbye on Vassily’s porch. Before they’re finished, the front door snaps open. On instinct, she leaps out of Caine's arms.

Moltka stares up at them, round face painted with the same gleefully disgusted expression he’d wear when dissecting earthworms. “Dad says to come inside and quit making a spectacle in front of the whole neighborhood."

At the same time, Nino passes through the foyer and catches sight of them. Lighting up with excitement, she leaps outside to seize Caine by the elbow. “Telescope-man, you’re here! I need those muscles of yours to move a couch downstairs for me.” She tows him inside, and he stares back at Jupiter with wide eyes, helplessly stumbling along.

Four hours, three moved pieces of furniture, and one family dinner later, Caine finally achieves escape velocity.

He stands on the second-to-last step of the front stoop, with Jupiter on the step above, so their faces are nearly even. She glances up and down the block, then kisses him goodbye.

 

~~~~~

 

On Tuesday, Caine shows up at Katharine Dunlevy’s apartment again with coffee.

“The Aegis Group called me in for an interview on Thursday,” he tells Jupiter, while he’s stretched up high to squeegee the tall living room windows. She whoops in excitement, tackling him onto the couch and peppering him with questions about when and where.

Aleksa walks through the room, a squirt bottle in hand, and sprays them with water until Jupiter climbs off of him.

 

~~~~~

 

On Wednesday night, Jupiter calls Caine’s apartment. “I missed your voice,” she says.

Two hours later, Mikka starts whining for Vassily to put his foot down. "She's monopolizing the phone! Jupiter isn't the only one with a boytoy to talk to!"

"Get in line, Зайка. Anatoly was supposed to call me an hour ago," Lyudmila tuts in agreement. 

 

~~~~~

 

On Thursday, Caine calls Vassily’s, and is passed around to four separate family members before Jupiter finally snatches the phone from Nino.

“I got the Aegis job,” he says, and Jupiter’s so excited she doesn’t even shout. If she shouts, it’ll start off a round of inquiries from everyone in the house. Instead, she hauls the receiver into the bathroom for privacy, cord stretched to the limit, and they talk about his new job for a while before she works up the nerve to tell him she’s decided to apply Early Decision to Columbia.

“I’ll bring my application tomorrow, so I can work on it while I’m there,” she says.

Silence settles over the phone line. “Columbia’s really close to my building.”

Jupiter grins and leans against the wall. “Is it? I hadn’t thought about that,” she lies.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [cereal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal) for coaching me through this section, because this is really her realm and not mine.

Friday night, when a knock sounds at his door, Caine snags the small bouquet of daisies he bought and bounds across the apartment to answer. Jupiter stands on the narrow stairs, duffel bag on her shoulder and two white Blockbuster VHS boxes in her hands.

“I brought some stuff to watch,” she says, handing them to him. He gives her the daisies, like some sort of barter, and she grins and presses them to her nose. They don’t smell like anything; it’s the heart of autumn, and he went to a dozen different florists, but no one had any daffodils. Most of the flowers were too expensive for his very modest budget. In the end, he was just pleased he managed to avoid another carnation debacle.

Sweeping into the apartment, she pulls off her coat and duffel bag and makes a beeline for Sig. He practically knocks her over as she hugs him and scratches his ears.

Caine bumps the door closed with his heel and looks down. He’s holding _Oliver and Company_ and _Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure._

“ _Dead Poet’s Society_ was already rented out,” she says, before he can even ask. She heads into the kitchen, using a water glass as a vase for the bouquet. Then she inspects the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove, and the pile of fresh latkes on the counter. “I couldn’t decide, so I got both. We should have plenty of time to watch them, since I’m staying the whole weekend. Did I mention that before?”

“No, but I discovered the t-shirt and socks you left last weekend. I assumed you’d need another few days to find your stuff. Again.”

Nibbling at a latke, she turns to brandish it at him accusingly. “These are perfect, just like Lyudmila’s! Did you write down the recipe?”

“No. I remembered how you made them,” he replies, putting the movies on the coffee table.

She picks up the empty jar of spaghetti sauce, then dips her pinky into the pot and sticks it into her mouth, sucking it clean. “You dumped the sauce in here all by itself?”

He follows her into the kitchen. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“You’re a good cook,” she replies.

Caine stares at her in surprise. “No one has ever accused me of _that_ before.”

“I sense vast, untapped culinary potential,” she says, eyeing him thoughtfully before whirling around to open the refrigerator, pulling out containers rapid-fire. “Grab the vodka, would you? Everything tastes better with vodka.”

She shows him how to make vodka pomodoro out of canned tomato sauce. He carries the kitchen table out onto the patio, and they eat spaghetti and latkes in their coats, by candlelight. He cradles her forearm and admires her mostly-healed tattoo; it's beautiful and delicate, like a filigreed garland made up of little navy-colored stars. Afterward, she pulls him into the observatory and they spend the better part of the evening stargazing.

Caine hasn’t ever been particularly interested in the stars, aside from their usefulness in navigation, but basking in Jupiter’s enthusiasm is exhilaratingly intimate. Her sense of wonder permeates the air like perfume, heady and intoxicating. He helps her locate constellations, and she tells him about the astronomers who charted them.

Eventually they end up back inside, on the couch.

“Which movie?” she asks.

“I haven’t seen either.”

She wiggles one box in front of him. “Orphan animal finds a family, or” – the second box – “Joe Schmoes travel through time and change the fate of the universe.”

He points at the first box. “Orphan animal tonight. Joe Schmoes tomorrow.”

During the opening musical number, Caine pulls Jupiter into his arms. She hums happily and leans back into his chest, head tucked under his chin.

They watch for a while, Jupiter absently tracing patterns on his jeans, above his left knee. Her fingers gradually roam farther afield, to the back of his knee and his inner thigh. Moving in swirls, as if she’s writing cursive with her fingertip, she eases her hand up along his inseam.

Caine can’t see her face, only the crown of her head. He stares at the television, trying to regulate his breathing. She shifts in his lap, so her hand can continue its path upward. The neck of her t-shirt shifts, too, revealing a lacy red bra strap on her shoulder.

Caine closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of the couch, face tipping toward the ceiling. Jupiter’s fingers trace letters along his thigh, and he feels an _O_ , a _V_ , and an _E_ before he loses concentration. Without consulting his brain, his body slumps lower against the cushions, his legs opening wider.

Jupiter’s hand eases into the warmth between his thighs, fingernails dragging across denim stretched tight. Her touch is light, gentle strokes one way and back the other, no letters this time, just steady contact.

Maybe he ought to be embarrassed by how fast she gets him hard, but he’s too distracted to care. He strokes her arm in time with her movements, shoulder to elbow and back again. On one circuit, he pauses long enough to dip into the neck of her shirt and finger her red bra strap.

Jupiter giggles. “Feeling impatient?”

“Is there an ‘oh captain, my captain’ scene in this cat cartoon? I’m just trying to gauge my wait time,” he asks, voice squeaking more than he intends. “Do I have time for snacks?”

“Remember the part of my Christmas list where you’re putty in my hands? I’m easing you into that phase.”

“I’m glad you’ve given this some thought. I really like it when you make plans,” he pants. “But it’s too late, the putty phase already happened sometime last week.”

Jupiter sits up and stares at him, crestfallen. “It’s over? I missed it?”

“It’s – ah – definitely still ongoing.” He shifts his hips, trying to ease the tightness in his jeans. 

She surveys him, a calculating grin forming before she leaps off the couch and scrambles into the bedroom, calling “Back in a sec!” over her shoulder. She bounds back out with his silver-grey tie.

“Teach me how to make a knot.” She drops down on his lap, straddling him. He grunts in surprise, and she loops the tie around his neck, so it rests against his black t-shirt. Her cheeks are pale, her lips bright red from being chewed on. Bashfully adjusting the tie along his chest, she adds, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But you said you like it when I make plans, and sometimes – well, you seem happy when I tell you what to do? When I order you around a little?”

Caine’s forehead and palms feel hot, and he steadies himself with a slow breath. It’s one thing to have this realization; it’s another thing entirely to admit aloud that it turns him on, especially to the person who brought on the realization in the first place. More than a few of Caine’s flash-in-the-pan relationships ended because he was incapable of talking about all the things he needed and wanted. He’s fucked up a lot of things in his life, and he swore to himself he wouldn’t do the same with Jupiter. 

“Yeah, I – I kinda do.”

“Kinda?” she says, not demanding, but careful and genuinely concerned. “Caine, it’s important to me that you’re comfortable. I wouldn’t ever want you to –”

He grasps her wrists, stilling her hands on his chest, and holds her gaze. “I like it. Sometimes – like right now – I _really_ like it.”

The sight of Jupiter’s wickedly elated grin makes his belly tingle with anticipation. She wiggles, grinding against his lap, and says, “Call me that nickname.”

Caine’s throat tightens and his hips rock involuntarily, a tiny desperate movement. “You mean, ‘your majesty’?”

Jupiter maintains eye contact as she leans forward and rewards him with a kiss. Her mouth stays closed until the very end, when she licks his bottom lip. “That really works for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.” She shifts back again and picks up the two ends of the tie. “Now teach me how to work this thing.”

“Around my neck?”

Her eyebrows lift as she grasps all the possibilities he just laid out in front of her. “We’ll start here tonight, and branch out later.”

He walks her through the steps for a Windsor knot, hands fisted into the sofa cushions while she works. Her fingers are nimble and within a few minutes she’s delicately shifting the knot toward his adam’s apple, careful to leave it loose, so there’s no chance of him getting hurt.

She keeps hold of the long ends, giving them a few experimental tugs back and forth as she watches his face. With each pull, it feels like the tie is connected all the way through his torso to his twitching cock.

“Good?” she asks.

He manages to nod. “Good.”

Jupiter spreads her knees away from his hips, so she slides all the way onto his lap, her warm weight open against him. His chin tips up as he seeks out her mouth. Lips parted, she kisses him. At the same time she takes his hands, lacing fingers together, and pins them into the back of the couch, just above his shoulders.

“I have another order for you,” she says into the corner of his mouth, words hot across his tongue.

“Your majesty,” he replies automatically, and Jupiter makes another delighted noise. Pressing his hands deeper into the couch cushions, she licks her way down his jaw and to his throat. Her tongue flickers at his skin, and after a second she lifts her head back up, silver tie clutched triumphantly between her teeth.

She’s stunning, dark hair framing her face and hazel eyes greedy. Transferring the tie to her hand, she drags it against his neck and says, “It’s going to sound simple, but this is the most important thing I’m ever going to ask you to do, and I need you to obey me perfectly. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” he rasps, staring up at her in expectant adoration.

She places her palm on his chest, over his heart. “Here’s what I want, Caine: I want you to listen, and I want you to hear me. That’s the order.”

He can’t make any noise at all, he simply nods again, enraptured by the sight of her – he’d follow her across the universe, wage war if it pleased her. Sitting still and listening is easy.

“Are you ready to hear me, like I told you to? Are you obeying?” Jupiter leans down, so her mouth is next to his ear, and she whispers her next words like a treasured secret, just between the two of them: “You’re a good man, Caine Wise.”

He closes his eyes and tries to swallow, choking on the fullness in his throat. The first day they spent together, after the run in the park, Caine was jealous of the attention Jupiter paid to Sig, how she praised and coddled the dog. These much more profound words whispered in his own ear, meant just for him – the earnest praise from this woman who has become his everything – a lifetime of isolation and a string of professional failures flicker into a wildly different perspective, when she says those words.

“I don’t –”

“Shh.” Her lips touch his face, tender kisses on his forehead and cheeks, his chin and nose. “I see how hard you are on yourself sometimes, and I know you’ve done things you aren’t proud of. But you’re here with me now because you’re brave, and strong, and clever, because you’re more than your past mistakes. You are a good man, Caine, and I’m so proud of you.” 

 _I don’t cry during sex_ , he’d told her. He swore he’d submit an affidavit to the INS, to prove it.

Technically he wasn’t a liar; they aren’t even naked yet.

“Fuck,” he gasps silently, blinking back the tears burning his eyes, his body a wild mess of sensation – howling desire, raw emotion, shame and relief and devotion. He hooks his index fingers into the belt loops on her jeans, to ground himself as Jupiter strokes his beard and brushes the tears from his eyelashes with her lips.

“I’m so glad I met you,” she whispers, the last word spoken into his mouth as she kisses him again, unhurried and soft. He tastes salt on her lips.

When she pulls away, the words burst out of him, like her mouth was the only thing holding them back: “Jupiter, I love you.”

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go; she’s supposed to say it first. But he got her daisies instead of daffodils, and _Dead Poet’s Society_ was rented out, and they’re already so far off-script, he might as well chuck the whole Christmas-list plan out the window.

She shifts back onto his knees and stares at him in astonishment.

“Sorry – I’m sorry.” He’s gone too far; he’s freaked her out. Mortification prickling cold across his scalp, he drops his gaze and scrubs the back of a hand across his cheeks, wiping away the last of his tears. “It’s ridiculous, I’ve only known you two weeks. Normal people take months or years to say that, right? I’m sorry –”

“Look at me! Don’t be sorry!” she says, beaming. “I had an entire speech planned for later tonight, but we can do the Cliff’s Notes, to save time: I love you too.”

“No,” he whispers, without thought, before he can stop himself. The word comes from the deepest, most withdrawn part of himself, the abandoned boy who could craved family, but who could never conceive that someone he loved might love him back.

She taps his chest, over his heart. “I told you to listen, remember? You’re supposed to _hear._ I love you, too.” At his bewildered expression, she says, “In the interest of full disclosure, you ought to know my worst fault: I’m terrible at waiting. On Christmas Eve when I was six, after my family went to sleep, I sneaked upstairs and opened all the Christmas presents. Not just mine, but everybody’s, because I couldn’t wait until Christmas morning.”

She continues, “Since we’ve been working from our relationship Christmas list, this weekend feels like Christmas Eve. I don’t want to wait another week to finish opening our presents, so I’m going to skip ahead.” Glancing at the ceiling as though reading lines written there, she blows out an unsteady breath. “Caine, will you marry me? Again?”

That little boy inside of him still whispers _no_ , shaking his shaggy blond head, secure in his conviction that life could not possibly turn out like this for someone like him, convinced this beautiful and fragile thing will end in a puff of smoke, like every other scrap of grace in his life so far. His destiny was so clear – serving, fighting, dying. It was all he could imagine for himself, and certainly all he deserved.

_You’re a good man, Caine Wise._

How could someone like Jupiter look at someone like him, and find anything worth building a life with? Not just a life – a _family_ , with all the trust and domesticity that sort of relationship implies. This is everything he’s always wanted, but he didn’t know it, because he couldn’t imagine a universe that might gift him with something so extraordinary. He was too dull to even conjure dreams of it.

Maybe it’s fitting for Caine to have fallen into this upside-down place, his backward life culminating in such an abrupt, backward marriage and courtship. Maybe fate is done throwing harrowing surprises his way; maybe it’s time for a string of unconventional marvels.

“Yes,” he says, arms snaking around her torso and pulling Jupiter close, his head buried in her neck to hide the tears welling in his eyes again, until he can blink them away. “God, Jupiter – _yes_.”

She squeals, a sound of pure joy, and squeezes him so hard his shoulders pop. “Thank you!”

Laughter bubbles out of him at that, light and exuberant, jostling his already buoyant heart until it feels like it’s going to lift out of his chest. “Thank you? Really?”

“I wasn’t assuming anything. I was hoping, but not assuming,” she replies, fingernails carding through his short hair. “Anyway, you might change your mind when you realize we’ll have to deal with another wedding ceremony. A real one where you wear a tuxedo, and a reception party afterward that Mama and Nino will insist on planning. Vladie and Vassily will probably try to take you out for a bachelor party the night before, too.”

The prospect of a Bolotnikov-run wedding is undeniably daunting, but Caine would leap through fire if Jupiter asked him to. “I don’t care. I’ll wear a tux. I’ll take the name Jones.”

Beaming ear to ear, so bright and warm it feels like the sun on his skin, Jupiter says, “Well then, you may kiss the bride.”

His other hand cups the back of her head, easing her forward, and he closes his eyes. Gently, reverently, their lips touch. Once, twice, then she leans her forehead against his.

“We keep skipping the engagement and going straight into the ‘I do,’” he murmurs.

“It’s my favorite part.” She kisses him again, then takes his tie in hand and drags the fabric back and forth across his neck, gentle and steady. “Hmm, I say that, but we haven’t tried a honeymoon yet. That might be my favorite part, I’m not sure. We’re a month and a half late giving it a try, we ought to start making up for lost time.”

Steadying himself with one hand on the couch, Caine rises to his feet with Jupiter still in his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist, to keep from falling.

“As your majesty commands,” he replies, and he carries her to the bedroom. She doesn’t weigh much, and carrying her isn’t difficult, but navigating is, especially when she’s kissing him and dragging her nails across his back, tugging his t-shirt up to get it off. When he deposits her onto the mattress, she keeps hold of his tie and pulls him down too. His t-shirt’s halfway over his head when Sig leaps onto the bed, big paws sprawling as he settles in to sleep.

“Sig, out!” Caine says, yanking his shirt the rest of the way off so he can grab the dog’s collar and haul him from the room. He deposits him in the hallway. “Stay here.”

He closes the door and turns back around to find Jupiter propped up on her elbows. “Listen, before we start the honeymoon, you should know I’m on the pill, and I’m healthy. I brought condoms, too, they’re in my bag.”

“I’m healthy, too, but I’ll use them if you want,” he says.

She shakes her head and wiggles her toes in anticipation, her gaze wandering the length of his body. “Come here.”

Sig’s distressed whimpers drift through the closed bedroom door.

“Poor thing,” Jupiter laughs.

“He’ll get over it,” Caine replies, silver tie on his neck trailing along Jupiter’s body as he crawls his way along the bed. “He’d better, because he’s going to be spending a lot of time in that hallway.”

“Maybe if Sig is patient, he’ll get a treat.” Jupiter rises up and shoves Caine’s shoulder, pushing him onto his back so she can straddle him. She strips off her shirt and reaches behind her back, unclasping her cherry red bra and tossing it onto the floor. Her long hair cascades around her shoulders, soft and enticing, and she rolls her hips forward, rocking against him. His hands splayed along her stomach, he slides them up until he’s cupping one breast, thumb tracing around her areola. Smile widening, she wraps his tie around her palm and says, “And if you’re a patient boy, I’ll give you a treat, too.”

He pushes air through his lips, but fails to make any sound.

“What sort of treat would you like?”

“To eat – eat you –”

Laughing again, Jupiter leans down over his chest, breasts cool against his skin. She kisses his collarbones and murmurs into his ear, “That’s very Big Bad Wolf of you.”

“You know what I mean,” he says.

“I’ll let you have a turn, if you’re patient and you don’t come while I take my turn,” she says, before kissing her way down his chest. She takes her time, lapping at his nipples and tracing the lines of his stomach. Taking the button on his jeans into her mouth, she stares up at him with dark, sultry promise.

Fabric in her teeth, she pulls.

The button doesn’t move.

She pulls again, eyebrow arched and face twisted into an expression of exaggerated effort. The fabric lifts off his stomach, but the button doesn’t give. Caine reaches down to help her, but she waves his hands away, redoubling her efforts.

The button gives way on the fifth tug, but the zipper is stubborn and won’t budge, either. Jupiter’s expression has shifted into determined concentration, like his jeans are a Rubik’s Cube to be solved, and he tries to choke back his laughter, but it comes out as a snort anyway.

“No making fun of my seduction techniques,” she chides, finally relenting and using her hands to deal with the zipper. He lifts his hips as she pulls the jeans down and shoves them onto the floor.

“I’m seduced, Jupiter, I swear I am,” he chuckles. Her nose wrinkles in mock exasperation.

“Black t-shirt, black jeans, black boxers, this is a pathological pattern,” she says, hooking her fingers into the elastic waistband and tugging. He lifts his hips again, and if Jupiter has anything else to say about his limited fashion palette, she loses her train of thought once Caine is wearing only the tie.

He isn’t vain … well, maybe he is. Only the tiniest bit. When it’s warranted. But the last few weeks’ worth of extra running and steamed vegetables, all in hopeful anticipation of this moment, were worth it. Jupiter’s in speechless delight over his naked body, dragging her teeth across the lines of his hipbones and licking along the lines of his abs, humming and squealing in quiet exhilaration. She takes her time, using her hands and mouth to explore. The first time he reaches out to reciprocate, she shuts him down with a tug on the silver tie, and continues to discover every inch of him with the unfettered delight of an explorer forging through unmapped territory.

When she eases her head between his legs, tongue working along his cock before she takes it into her mouth, Caine’s brain short-circuits and he sighs one of the incredibly profane epithets he learned in the service. Jupiter’s eyes snap to his face, and she’s obviously pleased with herself.

“Don’t come,” she reminds him, giving a warning pull on the tie she’s still got gripped in one hand.

His torso curves, following the movement, so he’s hunched sideways on the bed. It affords him full view of Jupiter. She’s lying on her stomach, the smooth line of her bare back and her jean-clad legs bent up into the air, ankles crossed and swaying back and forth as she works. Her loose hair tickles his belly and thighs, and her mouth doesn’t stop moving. In spite of valiant efforts to distract himself by counting cracks on the ceiling, it’s only a matter of minutes before he starts to whimper, his hips twitching and then bucking upward in rhythm with her movements.

She pulls away with a wet pop, licking her lips.

“I could keep going,” she says, eyebrows arched.

“No, please, Jupiter – my turn?” he stutters. “Please?”

Letting go of the tie, she crawls forward to kiss his mouth, fingernails dragging across his shoulder and up the back of his neck. Then she flops onto her back, hair fanning out around her head, and beams. “Okay.”

With that single word of permission, Caine’s arms unlock from where he pinned them to the mattress. He rolls onto his side and kisses her again, his itching hands finally stroking and caressing like they’ve wanted to for the last ten minutes. He kisses her neck, licks her collarbones, lavishes attention on her chest the same way she lavished attention on his.

The better part of him is frantic to rip off her jeans; he could shred them barehanded, he’s so desperate to bury himself between her legs. He keeps a chokehold on that feeling, and forces himself to go slow and savor, instead, because he’s definitely not going to come before Jupiter does.

He suckles one breast and then the other, edging one hand into the waistband of her jeans. Her knees fall open as his fingers slip further down, rubbing at the wet fabric between her legs. She groans, and he feels the sound in the base of his pelvis, warm and deep.

Caine takes his time, gradually stripping off the rest of her clothes. When he positions his head between her thighs, poised and ready, her body tenses and her legs clamp against his ears, trapping him.

Lifting her head and staring at him with wide eyes, she giggles, clearly nervous. “The beard tickles.”

“I’ll shave right now,” he replies in all seriousness. “Give me five minutes, it’ll be gone.”

“No,” she replies, taking a deep breath and dropping her head back onto the pillow. “No, it’s okay. Just hold on” – another deep breath, and the vise-like grip of her thighs eases up, freeing his head – “okay, I’m ready.”

It dawns on him, then, why she’s nervous. “Nobody’s ever –?”

“No,” she says, head still tipped back so she isn’t looking at him.

He backs up, so her knees are crooked over his shoulders and he’s perched on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t want them to? If you don’t want me to –”

Her head snaps up, and one hand darts out to snag the silk around his neck. “Nobody’s ever offered,” she replies, the words low and hoarse. “Don’t you dare stop.”

A weird burst of emotion pulses at the base of Caine’s skull: anger on Jupiter’s behalf at the selfish men who came before him; and gratification that he’s the one here and now, with the entire weekend to begin making up for the stingy pricks who preceded him.

Caine might’ve bumbled through the emotional parts of his previous relationships, but he’s never bumbled through this – he’s been told more than once that he’s really, _really_ good at it. One arm curls around the outside of Jupiter’s hip, his hand resting atop her pubic bone, to steady her. Maintaining eye contact, he acknowledges her command with a wet, thick stripe of his tongue. She sighs, hips arching up as her head drops back onto the pillow.  

He’d be smug at how quickly Jupiter comes, except he’s too distracted by way she moans his name, and the sheer bliss on her face as her body starts to twitch. Without stopping the motion of his tongue, he eases contact pressure until her back arches and she twists her hips away with another cry, thighs bumping the sides of his head. 

Grinning as he licks his lips, he watches her open her eyes and stare at the ceiling in a blissed-out daze.

“Holy shit, Caine,” she pants. She tugs on his tie, urging him up alongside her and drawing him close. “That was _amazing_.”

Before he can reach out for his discarded t-shirt, to clean his mouth, Jupiter seizes the back of his head and drags him in for a kiss. He’s braced himself to be patient, to wait until she’s fully recovered, but she doesn’t waste any time. Rolling him onto his back, she straddles his hips and kisses him with enough brute force to bruise his lips. He holds onto her waist, and she reaches between them with one hand to guide him inside herself.

All that satisfaction he might’ve felt earlier, about how quickly Jupiter came – it’s karmic retribution, the fact that he embarrasses himself by only lasting a matter of minutes. He doesn’t even hold out long enough for her to get close to another orgasm.

He’ll just have to make it up to her later.

Jupiter rolls off of him and collapses, sweaty slick skin and giddy kisses. 

“Your majesty,” he says, catching hold of the comforter and pulling it across both of them, bundling her in his arms. He wiggles his feet out of the blanket, so they’re exposed to the cool air.

"Mr Jones," she sighs contentedly, but the sigh ends in a small hiccupping sound. That hiccup turns into a giggle, and another, until laughter is cascading from her in waves, wracking her entire body. Finally she pulls in a few slow breaths to calm herself, and catches hold of his left hand, fiddling with his wedding ring. “We’ve known each other for two weeks, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That’s completely crazy, isn’t it?”

“It’s absolutely bonkers,” he replies, unruffled. “And it’s perfect.”

“Good. Just checking.” She folds her fingers between his, palm pressed against the back of his hand. He strokes down the curve of her hip, both their fingertips grazing her skin as he guides their movement. Gradually he slips their joined hands between her legs, and she gleefully nibbles at the rounded head of his shoulder.

A second later, he crawls under the comforter again, mouth following his fingers, and she starts moaning curses in Russian. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.

 

~~~~~

 

Jupiter doesn’t mind that her internal alarm clock wakes her up at 5:45 the next morning, because it means she gets to wake Caine, too.

They hardly leave the apartment for thirty-six hours. They don’t put on clothes for about the same amount of time – only briefly getting dressed to walk Sig, and to deposit Jupiter’s completed Columbia application into the nearest postbox. On Saturday night, they venture across the patio and into the observatory, but lose their clothes again once they’re inside, and they break the rickety wooden ladder to boot. Jupiter spends a few minutes pulling splinters out of Caine's ass, but the ladder is a total loss.

On Sunday, Caine takes off his ring and rides the train with Jupiter to Vassily’s house. She assumes he must be concerned for her safety, chivalrously escorting her home like last week. She pecks him goodbye on the porch, so he can make a quick escape, before her family press-gangs him into manual labor again.

He lingers, shoulders hunched as he casts furtive glances at the door.

“Caine, do you want to come in for dinner?” she finally asks.

Anyone else would label his expression a grimace; Jupiter recognizes it as panicked longing. She doesn’t know whether he’s about to bolt down the street, or plunge into the house and beg to move more furniture. Judging from the way his entire body jitters, Caine genuinely doesn’t know either.

In a play for time, he gestures at her left hand and avoids the question. “Aren’t you going to take off your ring?”

“I’ve decided to go ahead and tell them we’re engaged.”

“Shit! I knew it! Mikka, they _are_ getting married! You owe me ten bucks!” Vladie yells.

Caine flinches like he’s been struck, and Jupiter whips around to find that the nearby window has been open this entire time. Half-hidden by curtains, Vladie leans on the windowsill, his head craned to shout into the house.

Jupiter snatches one of Irina’s plastic herb pots from the ground and chucks it at her cousin. It thumps the back of his head in a spray of dirt and leaves, and he yelps, whirling back around to glower at her.

“Oh my god,” comes a squeal from inside the house, then a chorus of shouting, and the front door bursts wide open. The entire family crowds through, Irina hauling Jupiter inside and Vassily shaking Caine’s hand, slapping him on the shoulder with congratulations.

Nino pulls Caine down into a hug and whispers something into his ear; his eyes go perfectly round, and he straightens with the rigidity of a private up for inspection, turning toward the opposite end of the room.

Aleksa stands by the couch, hands on her hips. “Well, большой щенок?”

Jupiter dodges between Mikka and Vassily to stand beside Caine, catching his hand.

“I'm the one who asked him to marry me,” she says, before her mother has a chance to say anything wildly embarrassing. Like how Jupiter swore at sixteen years old she’d never love anyone except Tony Danza, or how Caine ought to have asked for Aleksa’s permission to get married, like Jupiter was some piece of property to be handed off from one family to another.

“And I suppose this means you’re moving to Manhattan?” Aleksa grumbles. There’s tightness around her eyes and resigned sadness in the turn of her mouth. Jupiter is Aleksa’s only child, the most tangible remnant of the great love of her life. Surely this feels not only like losing her daughter, but also like an echo of the loss of her husband.

Before Jupiter can admit to her mother that she and Caine haven’t even discussed the issue, he squeezes her hand. Glancing up, she finds his eyebrows arched. He mouths silently, “Are you?”

One corner of her mouth lifts. “Okay.”

Caine squeezes her hand again and drops his gaze to the floor, like he always does when he’s happy. Jupiter turns to her mother; Aleksa regards the two of them with an expression of knowing surrender.

“We’ll have you and Nino over to eat every week,” Jupiter says. “And we’ll always come to Vassily's for Sunday dinner, too.”

“You won’t have so far to travel for work, I suppose,” Aleksa sighs. She strides over to grasp Jupiter’s cheeks, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I am happy for you, my daughter.” She seizes Caine’s head, pulling him down and planting a kiss on his forehead, too. “And for you, my new son.”

Caine is speechless at that – he swallows, that same panicked longing on his face again, just like when he was outside on the porch.

Jupiter throws both arms around her mother. “Thank you.”

“Caine’s eyes are exactly like your father’s – the same color, and filled with the same kindness,” Aleksa murmurs into her ear, in Russian. The admission, the acceptance, it stops Jupiter’s breath in her throat. “He seems like a good boy, with a loyal heart. But if he ever makes you unhappy, I will cut off his balls.”

“I love you too, Mama,” she says, squeezing her mother tighter. 

Monday is Caine’s first morning at work for the Aegis Group, but he lingers at Vassily's late into Sunday night anyway. A few days later, Aleksa and Nino help Jupiter pack up two boxes worth of clothing and trinkets, and they drive her into Manhattan, to Caine's apartment. The four of them eat dinner together, the first occasion of a new, extended family tradition.

Aleksa and Nino go back to Brighton Beach. Jupiter stays in her new home, with her new husband. There's so much to get started on - holing up in the observatory, gleefully chasing each other into the bedroom, washing their first load of laundry together, and squabbling over who gets the last bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Before any of that, though, Jupiter drags Caine onto the patio. Sig trots along beside them.

Holding hands, they stare up at the stars and take in the view. The sky is completely clear, aside from the background glow of light pollution. Pinpricks of light gleam in the darkness, dazzling against the city skyline. 

"It's beautiful. Your dad was right, the sky is full of miracles," Caine says.

Jupiter leans into him. "I dunno. Earth isn't so bad. Plenty of miracles happening around here lately." 

Several long seconds of silence stretch between them. He tilts his head down to stare at her, eyebrows drawn together. "That might've been - no, that _definitely_ was - the cheesiest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Oh, shut up," she says, rolling her eyes and elbowing him in the ribs before she hauls him toward the observatory. "For the record, that's a royal command." 

He's grinning brightly. "So if I disobey, you'll have to tie me up and have your way with me?"

"Hmm, well. That's happening regardless," she replies.

"Jupiter, I'm going to need to know which of my parts you'd qualify as miraculous. Please be precise."

Caine lets her pull him into the observatory. She closes the door behind them. Sig curls up in his customary spot, beside the carefully stacked workout gear. Without being asked, because the ladder is broken, Caine stretches onto his tiptoes to shove open the observation hatch.

"Mercury's visible for the next half hour," Jupiter says to him. "And after that we'll get a Sharpie, so I can label all your parts on a miraculousness scale of one to ten."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jupiter gets into Columbia. She eventually earns her PhD, and a tenured professorship. She's internationally renowned for her wildly innovative research and in high demand as a guest lecturer. Caine travels with her to her academic gigs, and they see the world together.
> 
> Somewhere along the line, they have twin girls. One is definitely named Kiza.
> 
> Caine takes to stay-at-home parenting like a fish to water (a wolf to rollerblades?), toting his infant daughters around Manhattan, wearing them both in baby carriers, one on his back and one on his chest. The girls get older, and he's very active in the PTA, and in his scant spare time he probably does personal training on the side, and dabbles with opening a bakery business from their apartment. 
> 
> When the original Kiza gets married, the twins are flower girls at her wedding. (Aleksa meets Stinger at the reception. And maybe after a few glasses of champagne they exchange numbers, and definitely early one morning Jupiter catches Aleksa leaving Stinger's apartment. "Mama, really? A cop?" Jupiter teases, secretly ecstatic. "He's very good with those handcuffs," Aleksa replies.)
> 
> Jupiter and Caine argue sometimes, because all couples do. They take each other for granted, and they get burned out on parenting and their jobs. When that happens Aleksa and Nino take care of the girls for a few days, so they can work things out.
> 
> Periodically Jupiter and Caine fall in love with each other all over again, in new and different ways, because all couples do that too.
> 
> Of course everybody lives happily ever after. After all, this is a fairy tale.

**Author's Note:**

> Perpetual thanks to [redtailedhawk90](http://redtailedhawk90.tumblr.com) for her generous beta reading! Without her, this fic would have stalled out and been abandoned more than once. Thank you for your patient, quality feedback, my friend!


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